Carol Bergman

My husband, Jim, and I were a block away from the undetonated bomb in Chelsea last Saturday night. We didn’t hear the blast on 23rd Street because were in a sound-proofed concert hall at the National Opera Center on 28th and Seventh Avenue listening to life-affirming music. Afterwards we went with our musician friends to a very loud pub downstairs to celebrate, still oblivious to what had happened. Sirens and emergency vehicle lights in New York are a constant; we didn’t pay attention. So it was only when we were ready to leave and began to check our travel apps that we knew something had happened: there was no 1 train. This meant walking to the A train which was several blocks away. By then we knew there had been a blast. NYU alerts told the rest of the story. Protocol is: stay alert, keep away from hubs, move out of the area as quickly as possible.

Before we even begin to think about the causes and consequences of such violent acts, we are into survival mode. New Yorkers, city dwellers around the world, and travellers, are now good at that. And we probably will have to be for the forseeable future.

Then comes the aftermath, the thoughts about what might have happened, how we have been spared, the lists of those who have been injured and, for me, flashbacks to 9/11, and nightmares. The next morning I may still feel unsteady but I force myself to write in my journal—actually that is a relief—and to post on Facebook. Those posts are important for friends and family who live far away. They want to know if we are okay and we want them to know we are okay. But once the post is up, the “likes,” are not enough: I wish people would call. Electronic voices may be rich in feeling if the FB friend takes the time to write more than one sentence; mostly they are fast and shallow.

I think we forget sometimes how we have communicated with our loved ones: was that a text, a phone call, an email, an IM? And we forget the importance and solace of the human voice. True, I hear people “talking” to me electronically, but it is not the same. There are situations—and last Saturday night was one of them—when written words are not enough.

Recently, a friend who lost her father told me how hard it was to read condolences on Facebook. “I’m sorry for your loss,” was the favorite shorthand cliché when people were at a loss for what to say. It works and then it doesn’t. What we need in such moments is some originality, a willingness to interrupt routines and pleasures to show some real-time warmth, even if it’s a long distance hug on the phone and an empathetic ear.  Read More 

Did you know that there are therapy dogs for people with diabetes? I met a woman on the street who stopped to ask directions. I was with two friends on our Saturday morning dog walk and talk in Fort Tryon Park. The woman with diabetes bent down to pet the dogs and said she had a therapy dog and loved dogs. Then she told us about her diabetes and how her dog nudges her when her sugar elevates. If she ignores the warning, he barks.The news about the therapy dog made everyone smile which is why I am reporting it here. It’s my personal news story of the day.

In general, the news has been so worrying of late, that I have been highlighting stories that make me smile and writing about them in my journal. For example, a story about donkeys. Pictures of a Donkey Park in upstate New York appeared in a column called “Pet City,” by Andy Newman in The New York Times on September 4th. The first sentence was: “A miniature donkey can change your life.” Unlike Isis fighters or presidential candidates, the donkeys are “contemplative” and “gentle.” We definitely need more of this, and of them. Every day.

On the same day, there was a story in the business section by Claire Martin about MaineWorks, a company started by Margo Walsh that secures construction jobs for paroled prisoners. Ms. Walsh is a former recruiter for Goldman Sachs and a recovering alcoholic. She has replaced her addiction with a sense of purpose and so have her clients. Her business is thriving. MaineWorks’s revenue last year was $250,000.

I found the news stories quoted above in a paper copy of the newspaper I treated myself to on September 4th. I read every section thoroughly. Real paper and the smell of newsprint and business and real estate and art and opinion. When I read electronically, I skim, dear reader, what about you? I settle on what seems most important and interesting, and move on. But turning the cumbersome paper pages forced me to slow down, so I noticed life-affirming stories buried in the morass of troublesome news. I discussed this phenomena with my husband and we decided to change our subscription to a Sundays-only home delivery for the duration of the election season. And though the Sunday paper is loaded with useless paper advertisements—more than ever, it seems—and is, therefore, environmentally incorrect, he agreed that we should do it.  Read More 

I have just lost one of my cherished literary friendships. Gerry Oppenheimer died in Seattle on August 23rd, aged 94. In hospice care at home these past few months, he was dignified and alert to the end. I called him regularly, as I had promised when his wife, Mildred, died a couple of years ago. He hadn’t been a great telephone conversationalist and I had usually talked to her at greater length, but I enjoyed them both—books, politics, family. Both Mildred and Gerry were librarians. There wasn’t an author or book they did not know about. Mildred read more novels, Gerry more history. Both were avid consumers of the New York Times and The New Yorker.

When our daughter, Chloe, was born in London, they sent a beautifully illustrated book about children from all over the world. They were cultivated internationalists in the best sense of that word, and maintained their friendships with a devotion rarely experienced these days, despite the ease of social media. We never felt out of touch with them no matter where we lived.

Mildred was my husband, Jim’s, cousin. Their family had settled in Seattle at the turn of the 20th century. Originally fish brokers in Berlin, they also had salmon fishing traps in Ketchikan, Alaska. Youngsters in the family got to spend their summers working there and photos in the Ketchikan newspaper archives are testament to the family’s integration into the Innuit community. Only the boys were invited to Alaska, of course. The girls—still domesticated and religiously observant—stayed home. But the history of Seattle is also the history of the Bergmans in Seattle, and all of it is captivating. Gerry came to the city later, as a refugee from the Nazi genocide. He was a historian of the period and the perfect person to consult as I began working on a memoir about my Austrian and Czech family. So during one trip to Seattle, I took a long meandering morning walk with him and talked about what I was working on. He was a wonderful listener and asked sharp, useful questions. And as an archivist and researcher par excellence, he offered tips and then followed up with hard research he had done himself. “Searching for Fritzi,” would not have been written without him. So when I say Gerry was a literary friend, I mean just that; he wasn’t a writer himself. But he understood how to encourage and support a writer struggling with a project. He had nothing at stake except his desire to help. Later, when the book was in galley, he read it thoroughly and made corrections and suggestions.

And then came Trollope. This was during another stopover in Seattle, on our way to Alaska. More walks and talks along Lake Washington. Did I know, Gerry asked, that he belonged to a Trollope club? No, I did not! I had never read Trollope, I confessed. Should I read Trollope? Deep, rumbling laughter followed, very Trollopian, I now know since I have read Trollope ever since. In the very bedroom where we were staying during that visit was a shelf-full of Trollopes, all 47 of them. “The Warden first,” Gerry suggested. And that was that. I was hooked.  Read More 

Yesterday was my husband’s 39th birthday. The celebrations will continue all week with table tennis (he’s a tournament-level player), good food, friends and family, laughter and stories.Planning the celebrations was a welcome break from work and worry, election propaganda and its unrelenting hyperbolic speech. After a while, no matter our political preference, everything the candidates say sounds like a big lie.

I am getting into a virtual hammock for a few days. I leave it to my news junkie 39-year-old husband to keep me apprised of important developments that cannot be ignored. And, of course, I do scan the news alerts and worry about terrorist attacks and my Turkish student, but I will take it a bit slower for a few days, not carry all the world on my shoulders, and swim as as much as I can. That’s where I relax the most, where ideas for new writing come to me. The text of Nomads 3 is finished. More reason for a refueling hiatus.

The Guardian newspaper in London is running a series of articles this summer about books that give us hope. The first on their list is Marilynne Robinson’s “Gilead.” She is what some call a “meditative” writer; she writes with intention, not to cure us, but to give us perspective.

I have a few such books on my shelves also, books I return to often. Here’s a shortlist of the authors whose humanity, psychological insight and literary skill have joined my personal pantheon: Graham Greene, Anne Tyler, Raymond Carver, Kent Haruf, Willa Cather, Alice Munro and Edith Wharton.

And that’s just a shortlist.

I find that reading a lot of history also helps me maintain perspective on this violent world we are living in. I have just finished "When Paris Went Dark" by Ronald Rosbottom, which was riveting. It's a well-researched book about the Nazi occupation of Paris. As Ur-Fascism is still with us...you can fill in the blanks.

Enjoy what is left of the summer, dear reader, and if you are traveling, travel well, home safe.  Read More 

I last heard from my Turkish student—I’ll call him D—on July 21, just a few days after the attempted coup, but before the arrests of 61 journalists.

In that email, in response to my concerned email, cc’d to his workshop class, D wrote: “Hey everyone, I'm okay & safe now. Still in Istanbul, and working at my office, _____Newspaper. Thanks for your support & messages, Carol. It means a lot. Best, D.”

D came into my workshop at NYU last spring. He had been posted to New York and wanted to improve his reporting and writing in English. My high-powered writing class was not the best place to work on his English, but he was determined. He did very well. He was lively, engaged, perceptive and brave. Yes, brave enough to begin writing about a demonstration he’d participated in as a student in Turkey and the arrest of two friends.

I have had more international students in my class in recent years than ever before. They have come from China, Russia, Thailand, Iran, and other despotic regimes where there is no freedom of speech or freedom of the press.

It’s hard for them, at first.

Learning to write well in English—in America—demands a bold, unfettered voice. I have to assure my students that my workshop is a safe room and that they are not obliged to publish anything they write. But while in my class, I insist that they assume an absolute freedom to write. And they cannot remain quiet; they must participate in discussion.

My American-raised students benefit from this mandate, too. They also carry fears into the classroom, though ending up in jail is not one of them.

I try to stay in touch with my overseas students after the workshop is over. If I hear that someone is in trouble, I do what I can from New York. Both PEN America and Amnesty International advocate for persecuted and incarcerated writers.

I am confident that any students who have tasted the freedom to write in my classroom will never again be able to self-censor their words. I wish them all safe passage and courage in the difficult years ahead.  Read More 

It was a hot, humid city Thursday. I got off the A onto the steamy platform at 59th St. to change to the C train. Oh, it was hot on the platform. I had forgotten to bring a bottle of water. The air-conditioned train will be here soon, I said to myself. Just relax. Breathe. Dream of Tokyo where the subway platforms are air-conditioned. Imagine you are in the pool. As most thoughts, these were fleeting. Heat descended, the train didn’t arrive. I turned to my right and there was a man, buds in his ears, holding a notebook against a pylon, writing. He put the book down a moment, then lifted it again to write some more. He was using a pencil, I recall, because who can write in that position using a pen, right? It doesn't work. And I recognized that Staples notebook. Unlike other cheap composition books it has a soft cover easily turned inside out, lighter to carry. My journal of the moment is the same!

So I couldn’t resist: I went over to the man and said, “What are you working on?”

I’d interrupted his writing reverie and he was startled. Then he smiled. The B train arrived, not my train, but I got on it anyway. I could get off at the next stop and still be okay for my destination. I wanted to talk to this writer who wrote on the subway platform.

His name is Jason Faust.

“Faust as in Faust?”
“Yes. I’m a playwright, I’m working on a play.”
That was in answer to my question as the train arrived.
“Had anything produced?”
“A one-act.”
“Day job?”
“At a theater. At least I’m in the business.”

One stop and we had talked a lot, as writers do. I asked Jason permission to write about him in this blog and to post a photo of him I’d snapped before I so rudely broke his reverie. He said, “of course,” and handed me his card. I gave him mine. Now we were networking!

I know many writers who concentrate best when they are surrounded by noise and activity, but never have I met anyone who writes on a subway platform. This was a first.  Read More 

I was awakened by milling on my street at 2 am, brewed up some tea, and made the mistake of turning on my iPad.

More unbearable breaking news: cops shot in Dallas during a demonstration against police brutality. Before the gunfire, protestors and police were posing for photographs—peacefully. This lovefest does not answer the endemic racism, but it may be a watershed moment. Unless we become inured to killing, it will stop. We are not Boko Haram training drugged children to kill by slaughtering chickens or their own parents. We are Americans. We’ve had our civil war, our revolution, our Bill of Rights. We can fix this.

For what remained of the night, even as I attempted to rest my brain, I was writing this blog post and thinking of all my African-American friends who have been stopped by the police. My husband’s screenwriting partner, Gerard Brown III, author of “Juice,” a cult classic, has many stories to tell. He has a gentle, loving nature so when the cops stopped him, frisked him and searched his backpack one afternoon in the neighborhood where he lives, he was able to stay calm and civil. The humiliation and disrespect stayed with him.

And that is just one story among too many stories. An ex of my daughter’s carried a police badge in his wallet. His dad was a court officer and got it for him. But what if he had reached for it one day in the car when he was stopped, my daughter riding “shotgun.” What an image that is!! When I asked him one day—as a mom—if he was being careful, he pulled out the badge. I had never known he was carrying it until then.

For weeks now, many of my FB friends have been writing the most heart-rending posts about the latest killings. It’s so hard for all of us to know how to respond. FB is helpful because it enables us to have a conversation and, therefore, some solace. Articles are posted. Petitions. This morning I signed a petition to Loretta Lynch. Thousands upon thousands of people signed it.

What a world we live in. What, if anything, has changed? Have we made progress? Is it possible to maintain an historical perspective? Where can we find sanctuary and wisdom? Read More 

Shall we use real names? Fictionalize? What if someone reading a blog post or my fiction finds themselves in my work? I’ve used their experience and/or their name without asking and they are offended, even hurt? Is it worth risking a friendship or a relationship with a family member? What if I offend a politician or a government? What then?

These are difficult questions for any artist, but they are also irrelevant to our work. Is that too harsh? Too uncaring? Does it matter what genre we are working in so long as we keep working? Does it matter if we fudge the boundaries between genres? Experiment with new forms? Yes and no. Sometimes.

Artists make art out of their lives. We’re on a quest for truth, clarity, tolerance, connection, the transformation of life experience into art. We speak when no one else dares. We write and draw and take photographs when no one else has the skill, access, tools or knowledge. We dig deep, we don’t let go.

Is it any wonder that so many artists and writers are in jail in authoritarian countries?

I just finished reading a very affecting book, “The Inventors,” by Peter Selgin, a former Gotham Writers Workshop colleague. It’s a coming-of-age memoir about his well-known inventor father, an inspiring 8th grade teacher, and Peter’s own subsequent “invention” and “reinvention.” It’s told using a mostly second-person narration, an intriguing choice that works well. But why this choice? I’ve sent Peter a query and hope he will answer before I post this blog. He’s just returned from a successful book tour. The book is doing well, as it should. But, Peter, I have some questions. I do remember talking to you about these issues when we were in a writing group together some years ago. I don’t think we ever agreed. So here we go with this discourse once again:

The teacher is never identified, nor are one or two other characters in the story. As the revelations are often troubling, and this is ostensibly a memoir not a novel, the absence of identification feels like an ellipsis. The teacher and Peter’s father are dead, other people are not. Was Peter worried about offending? Protecting? Why did he make this decision? As of this writing, I am not sure. But I was stopped short by this sentence from one of the contemporary first-person journal entries: “If I mix a little fiction and nonfiction, a little lie with the truth, it’s by way of making truth even truer.” (page 145) After that, I’m left to wonder if anything Peter describes in his story—his feelings, the anecdotes—is true, or where the truth lies, if anywhere, or if I have just been reading a very good made-up story by a very fine writer and, if so, if I have been tricked in some way into thinking that what Peter says happened really happened. Maybe The Teacher, as he is called, didn’t ever exist. Maybe he was invented, a figment of Peter’s imagination.

I have strong opinions about fabrication in non-fiction work: I think the writer loses credibility. It’s probably my journalism muscle, but there it is. Lying politicians, cover-ups, a manipulative market-driven mass media. Remember James Frey who was advised to transpose his novel “A Million Little Pieces” into a memoir—without proper guidance, because it would sell better—and then got into trouble with Oprah on live television?

In nonfiction, we can write imaginatively, even experimentally, of course, but fabrication and conflation, that doesn’t work for me unless the book is labeled fiction or autobiographical fiction. Read More 

"As you are reading these words, you are taking part in one of the wonders of the natural world. For you and I belong to a species with a remarkable ability. We can shape events in each other's brains with exquisite precision...this ability is language."

--Steven Pinker in "The Language Instinct; How the Mind Creates Language"


I was sitting next to Thea , an adorable four- year- old, in the back seat of a truck. Her father was driving, my son-in-law was sitting next to him, my daughter was on the other side of Thea's car seat in the back, her mother was waiting for us at a restaurant. It was late in the day, near dusk, and the mountains were already in shadow. The road was winding, the sky and clouds majestic. Thea had a lot to talk about, lots of stories to tell, lots of observations to make. Just four-years-old and stories and interesting words came pouring out of little Thea. Of course, she has wonderful, attentive, verbal parents. They talk to her-- and with her --non-stop. They don’t silence her in any way, though they do suggest a quiet moment or two, especially when they are in the midst of an adult conversation. At bedtime, they read her stories. So when Thea says, “The mountains are so beautiful,” with a Sarah Bernhardt inflection, she has either heard that somewhere or devised it herself. Or when she points to her hand-made bracelet and explains that it’s “homegrown” she’s evoking the flowers and vegetables in her garden. She shares the sweet peas she’s picked with everyone in the truck. And there are quite a few charming sentences to go with that generosity, the perfect condiment so far as this writer—who loves sentences—is concerned.

It’s a marvel how much complex language Thea has acquired in just four years of her life. She’s a chatterbox and I mean that in a complimentary way. Not long ago, when children were expected to be obedient—the seen but not heard tradition—the word chatterbox was a slur, especially when targeted at girls. But times have changed: being a chatterbox is a good thing for a four-year-old and for writers, by the way—on the page or in company. Which gets me to thinking: how can this chatterbox model be replicated in our classrooms? Is conversation being encouraged or stifled? Are vocabulary words being memorized or are they used in context? How much, in fact, do we expect of our children and ourselves?

What if instead of testing our kids every five seconds our tax dollars were spent on intelligently devised language and knowledge interventions? What if we taught all parents how to do what Thea's parents do without a second thought? What if our hard-working teachers still had time to enrich lives rather than grade them?  Read More 

The immigrant from South Africa, the native from Connecticut. The youngest was 19, the oldest 50. They were pharmacy techs, travel agents, entrepreneurs, students, and church-goers. Many were gay, lesbian, or transgender; all were someone's son or daughter.
--The Daily Beast


I’ve been reading some poetry this morning. A Catholic friend is reading the Bible and posting verses on Facebook. JetBlue, a corporation with a conscience, is offering free air travel to friends and families of the victims. The President has spoken--yet again-- with strength and dignity about a massacre, grief and shock.

This horrible event in Orlando has an historical and political context; it does not stand alone. And though it is impossible, even futile, to try to understand how a single person can hate and kill and gather guns to kill, we can also have compassion for his parents. He was a son, too, a son with promise born on democratic American soil. Think about his Dari-speaking Afghan immigrant parents. How relieved they must have been to escape a war zone. Did they take that trauma with them? Undoubtedly.

Certainly, something went terribly wrong with their son.

Even Hitler was a baby once upon a time. A baby who grew into a man infected by a coarse and dangerous ideology. A baby who grew into a killing machine. First came propaganda, then a book, then the final solution.

A home-grown terrorist. We don’t have to look overseas to ISIS to find a hate- driven ideology. Donald Trump’s foul mouth twists words and distorts truth. His angry face fills our television screens every day. If he were our leader, how many people would say “heil” to him?

Let us not let him stop us from thinking clearly, feeling deeply, or sounding our own carefully chosen words with honor. Let us celebrate our heartfelt human response to this tragedy.  Read More