Carol Bergman

Four months ago, I went on an off-trail hike with my daughter, some friends, and three frisky dogs. My back was hurting before I left but it was gorgeous day—sun shining, leaves turning—and I didn’t want to miss it. We explored fifty-eight acres of untouched wilderness, clambering over glacial rocks, felled trees, and shallow streams. The endorphins kicked in as soon as we descended into the shadows of the old growth forest and I felt no pain. I didn’t know I had injured myself until the next morning and have been recovering ever since. I haven’t stopped exercising—gently—or writing, but I have been slowed down and have only just finished the revision of my new book—a few weeks behind schedule but in plenty of time for the start of the new term. My new students will hear of my writer’s travails, including my inability to sit for long stretches. I’ll be carrying a special chiropractic pillow, standing up as I teach, and bending over during the break.

My chiropractor tells me that our species is not meant to sit for long stretches; our spines prefer the more feral posture of all fours. I tried this as I cleaned my bathroom the other day. It works. But writing is a different challenge. I remember reading about Ernest Hemingway’s stand-up desk—there is a company that has named a desk after him—and also Philip Roth. His latest book, “Nemesis,” is novella length. He either made a decision to keep his projects short or is in between larger books. The book is beautiful, by the way.

I had a friend in a writer’s group years ago who developed RSI (repetitive strain) and couldn’t work at the computer very much. She began to write very short stories. In the past, her prose had been sprawling and self-indulgent but the necessity of writing longhand changed her use of language. It became intense, and riveting. She had never written anything better and began to get published regularly. At the time, I took her experiences as a lesson to reduce my ambitions to manageable, realistic levels. I began to edit and revise in long-hand and I began experimenting with poetry, which distills language, thought, and experience. In other words, I slowed down.  Read More 

This is a New York Christmas story, of which there are many. We only have to walk onto the street from our cozy apartments to find them. Sometimes they find us. Few families I know have not been touched by the recession this year, including my own. Hardships everywhere, downsizing, lay-offs. Writers keep writing through it all. And gathering stories.

So I suppose, given our hard, strange times, that I wasn't surprised when a slightly demented disabled man in a wheelchair sitting next to me on the Broadway bus looked normal to me. In fact, the expression on his face--compared to the other sullen passengers-- was open and jolly, Santa Claus jolly. He was dressed in ragged clothes, his face was dirty, and he was missing most of his front teeth. I was sitting next to him--no surprise that this seat was empty at rush hour--and heard all his mumblings and rumblings. And then a fancy woman appeared. Fancy was his word; he was a natural story teller I soon learned. And he turned to me and said, "She looks very independent." She was standing over him balancing a heavy bag from a fancy store and she was wearing a white and gray fur coat and fussing with her Blackberry. And this man in a wheelchair was utterly invisible to her. Nonetheless, he carried on. Somehow, he'd gotten her number. How many New Yorkers in furs do we see on the bus? Not many. A fur signals taxi, a buffer from the the hoi polloi. But this woman was on the bus, busy with her packages, her phone, her fur, in her own world. "I suppose you've been doing some Christmas shopping," the man said. No answer. "And that you've been shopping mostly for yourself."

Well, well. That raised a few heads. The man's voice was baritone, sonorous as it hissed through the gaps in his teeth.

"What about you?" I asked. "How are you doing?"

"Surviving. Every day I survive is Christmas."

"How are you coping in this cold weather?" I asked.

"Well, you know I am from Miami and when I was growing up I only saw snow once. Just little flakes that came down and we all ran outside and then they were gone. Snowflakes. I love them."

Then he chuckled, blessed me, and wished me a Happy Holiday as I got up to get off the bus.

I thought about him on the way to the east side to listen to serene Gregorian chants in the Medieval Hall at the Metropolitan Museum. Men in black, posing as monks, all with angelic voices. And I realized I'd met an angel on the bus or, perhaps, Santa Claus.


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Am I imagining things or are novels getting longer and longer? I asked my agent this question because I don’t think the book I am working on will be more than 50-60,000 words. Are publishers insisting on very big books? She said, no, not that she was aware, even though I have recently read: the first two Stieg Larsson’s, Verghese’s “Cutting for Stone,” all three novels by the talented Irish mystery writer, Tana French, and Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom.” All of the above are TOMES, more than 80,000 words. Four are genre fiction, the Verghese and the Franzen are literary.

My favorite length to write is the novella and I am looking forward to writing the fifth in a new collection when I’m done with the bigger book I am currently revising. So I was stunned when I realized that I’d nearly finished Philip Roth’s new book, “Nemesis,” that I was zipping right along on my Kindle into the high percentiles. I went into the new NYU bookstore on Waverly Place—gorgeous—and took a look at the book: 280 large print pages. It’s a novella. So what is going on? Well, he’s Philip Roth and can write any length book he wants, I would think, and that book will be published. This one is good, luminous, carefully crafted, and though it’s a novella, it’s still a book.

I often think that long books are too long, that they go on and on, that they are self-indulgent, and that they could use heavy editing.

When I asked some reader friends—as opposed to reader/writer friends—if they like to read TOMES—they said they do. Once into a story they want it to go on and on, if it is good that is. And I suppose the marketing folks at publishing houses know this. Back in the 19th century long books were serialized in magazines, a sensible way to present a book to the reading public. No one expected the reader to digest the book in one gulp and sales were boosted by the anticipation of the next installment. I suppose the Stieg Larsson phenomena is similar, except that each installment is a TOME. Not to mention that the TOME is very heavy—hard to carry, hard to read in bed. But then again, I have my Kindle.  Read More 

I am in the midst of revising a book I published before it was ready. I wanted my extremely old mother to see it and I rushed its completion. No matter. Those who read it in print gave me all the feedback I need to return to the project. Then I met an editor from a prominent publishing house over the summer who gave me even more encouragement to make the book longer and darker. I arrived at the halfway point yesterday—30,000 words—and I’m taking a couple of days off before continuing. I’ll visit a couple of museums, do a lot of reading, relax, and not think about the book for a few days. Or think about it in my dreams. My goal is to finish another draft by the end of the year. I may make it, I may not make it. I hope my back holds out because sitting for hours is not good for my back. I get up a lot, stretch a lot, wash the dishes, go for walks, swim, stand up, and eat my lunch standing up. When I teach, I usually stand up. Too much sitting during the day. I think I saw a picture of Philip Roth writing at his writing table. The table was like a speaker’s podium and he was writing standing up. What a great idea.

So, how is the revision going? I’m adding layers of plot, texture, and detail. I’ve introduced a new narrator which has shifted the story in unexpected ways. That’s exciting but it is also challenging. And that’s what revision is: a re-visioning. We have to be open to the unexpected and tolerant of the changes they imply, as flexible as bamboo. This is not always easy. As in life, we hang on to things that aren’t working; it’s hard to let go. As words spill out of us, they embed in our neural pathways, like a melody, and it’s difficult to dislodge them. But we have to.

Sometimes it’s helpful to break writing and life routines to get the re-visioning into gear. Or to read passages aloud to writer friends, or to go for a run. Or to take a break and just relax, garden. I think that Margaret Atwood taught a class once at Columbia called, “What Writers Do When They Are Not Writing.” Writers have written books about what they do when they are not physically writing. The truth is, we are always writing and we are always writers even when we have to strip down or discard something we have worked on for weeks, months, or years, and begin again.  Read More 

One of my workshop students enjoyed the assigned readings last week but found them intimidating. Another student said she didn’t listen to my suggestion before writing; she read the readings after doing her own writing. It was only the second class so my guess is that these two brave students—one man, one woman—who expressed a fear of not being able to write as well as seasoned, practiced writers, were not alone; they were only braver. So I thank them for raising an issue to discuss in class and here, raising it openly, thus exposing their own vulnerable selves to a group of peers who are still strangers.

As it happens, today is the birthday of the longest-serving First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, born in New York City (1884) who said, as anti-communist witch-hunting began to sweep the U.S. after her husband died, that few Americans were brave or bold enough to speak out and stand up for freedom. She complained that the "American public is capable of doing its own censoring.” I feel the same way about my students sometimes. Why do we always put the brakes on and retreat? What do we fear exactly when we read a worked, admirable piece of prose? That we can’t do it? That we’ll never be able to do it? That someone will stop us from doing it? We live in a Great Democracy and it is our mandate to write and read with gusto and appreciation.

That said, writing is hard work. Without models of aspiration and accomplishment, how are we to learn what we must do to make a piece of writing work? There is no such thing as undue influence. True, we may try to imitate a fine sentence or paragraph, but that is only practice. Soon enough, we will fall into our own cadences, our own subject, and our own voice.

Sometimes students ask me to suggest books “about” writing. I never do. My suggested reading lists—fiction and nonfiction—are by writers who write—freely and bravely—about what burns inside them. They are offered as inspiration, not intimidation.  Read More 

I’ve been listening to The Beatles these past few weeks as I’ve been working out and paying closer attention to the lyrics than I ever have before. I always admired them and now I know why: they are well honed stories. I pulled the lyrics of “Paperback Writer” off the internet but won’t break copyright and reproduce them here. I’ll paraphrase, as needed. So ubiquitous are all The Beatles songs that I hear people referring to them in the oddest places: the swimming pool, for example. I was humming "Hey Jude," as I was turning into my 40th lap when I stopped to say hello to a fellow swimmer who was lapping me and wanted to pass. Before we both knew it he had uttered a line from the movie "Help," and I sang a line or two from "Paperback Writer." Truly, this really happened. As he swam off he sang, "Here Comes the Sun," which, in fact, was also true as the sun was rising to the east of the glass-enclosed pool.

I looked up the back story of “Paperback Writer” which was released in 1966. Apparently, those genius four guys were challenged to write a song that was not a love story so the one-note melody seemed appropriate. After all, isn't life without love a one-note melody? Then one of The Beatles walked into a room and saw someone else reading a paperback book. Thus was the song born. But what does it say, if anything? And is it more than melody and beat?

I find it interesting that as nonsensical as we try to be, once words are strung together, they have meaning. This song is silly but it also says a lot about the challenges of being a writer and it has historical context and a setting. The Beatles were from Liverpool and they emerged from the culture at a certain time in its history. They were irreverent, they asked hard questions, and they were fun and wonky all at the same time. The writer in their story will do anything with his novel to make it work. He needs a job! He’s so desperate that he’ll sell all the rights.

I’m not a Beatles historian but I do believe they were very smart about their intellectual property and held on to it. And they weren’t afraid to take risks, to be different, to say what they wanted to say about life and about themselves.  Read More 

I got hooked on “Mad Men” in its third season and am still an avid fan. I returned to Season 1 on DVD and caught up with the rest on PTOD. I even get the program’s FB feed, so admiring am I of the writers, the production values, and the actors. I find the scripts complex and often watch an episode twice: once for pleasure, once to listen more analytically to the script. My screenwriter husband makes comments on second viewing which enhances enjoyment of what will be, I am certain, a classic television series.

Last night’s episode was particularly inspiring because our hero, Don Draper, has not descended into end-stage alcoholism but has started swimming and is keeping a self-reflective journal. The voice-over narration is lifted from the journal and we see him writing in it—a small, spiral bound book--as he sits at his desk by the casement windows in his bachelor apartment. We don’t know if he’s writing in the morning, evening, or on the weekends, but he is writing regularly, not for work but for himself.

For readers of this blog who have not as yet savored “Mad Men,” I won’t give away too much back story. Suffice to say, Don has never finished high school and has never before written more than short paragraphs of about 250 words. His new practice—of writing every day in a confessional and observational journal—has been a revelation, transforming his writing, his perspective on the work he does (advertising), his relationship with his ex-wife and children, and the historical events he’s witnessing. The journal entries begin with lament and conclude with astute, clear-headed, sober commentary.  Read More 

What have I accomplished this summer? I finished a novella-- the fourth in a new series of five—and began a revision of a novel. I’ve kept my observational green moleskin going and written a couple of poems. I’ve hiked, socialized, had some adventures. I’ve read a lot. The teaching term will begin soon but my daily writing regimen will continue, albeit with adaptations.

As an academic and a lifelong student of all that interests me, the fall always feels like a new year to me, one reason among many I am indifferent to the generic new year announced on January 1. As a child, a trip to the store to buy new binders, pencils, pens, reinforcements, rulers, Crayolas and a tin lunchbox, was always thrilling. Nothing stayed fresh for long but it didn’t matter, it only meant that I was already deeply immersed in books and paper, homework and new friends. That has never changed for me. Nor has my enthusiasm for meeting new writers each term in my workshop class at NYU. Everyone brings something of interest and importance to the class. If any prospective students are reading this blog, I look forward to meeting you.
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I’m back in the city for a few days in search of quiet spaces—both internal and external—to think, read, and write. Usually, the atelier in my apartment is very quiet. It’s a room at the back, off the street. The doves coo on the roof and there is mechanical ambient sound, but it falls into the background as I work. Today, the air has cooled and the screened window is wide open to the surrounding brick walls. There isn’t much light but I don’t need light at the computer. I’ll find that later when I take a break and go swimming in a glass enclosed pool. Yet later, I’ll take another break from a revision I’m starting to meet a friend for a coffee. Alas, some of the quietude I rely on here has been broken and the quiet space is not quiet this week. We had a bad fire in our building.

It happened at 4 a.m. last Monday morning. When we arrived from upstate later that afternoon, the fire was over but there was still a lot of activity—police, restoration crews, fire trucks. About fifteen apartments were effected—not ours thankfully—the whole roof destroyed as well as two apartments in the adjacent building. Fortunately, no one was hurt though several families have lost their homes. Most of the damage was water damage. In the aftermath, the building is busy with insurer adjusters and crews and machines drying out the walls. So, yesterday morning, I escaped across town to a writer’s room I used to belong to and thought I’d rejoin for a few months until the building is back in shape. It was a difficult trip to the other side of town in sheeting rain. The building, an old library, had been closed for renovation over the summer. Now it was reopened but still busy with workers. None of this was mentioned on their website. I regretted not calling ahead but I was desperate to find a quiet space to work. I hadn’t done a stick of work all morning and was feeling mighty frustrated.

In the end, it was my own mood that did me in. Obstacles in every direction, I hated the city in that moment. I had to calm down. I returned home, ate some lunch, and watched a recorded Antiques Roadshow with my husband for an hour. Then I returned to my desk.

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I got locked out of my car yesterday, my keys in my backpack on the seat together with: my wallet with AAA card, my cell phone, my reading glasses, my two pads of paper and pens, water, my Kindle, a New Yorker. It was a hot, muggy day and something had gone wrong with the electronics; the car is not supposed to lock automatically. As soon as it happened, without pen and paper, I started writing a story about the adventure in my head. It had a plot, characters, descriptive detail, each of which were added in a rapidly unfolding melodrama. It was the only way I could stay focused and sane because I wasn’t in a very congenial place when this happened.

I’d been in the local library working all afternoon and then had the brainy idea that I’d vacuum the car at a self-serve car wash next to a Stewart’s before heading back to the house. There is a prison nearby and this particular Stewart’s attracts released inmates and families of inmates, motorcycle gangs, burly corrections officers carrying mega-weapons, and me.

I put my backpack on my back, locked the car, headed for the change machine, returned to the car, put the coins into the machine, opened the door, put my backpack on the seat, let the door slide shut for a minute, and that was it. I had to go into the Stewart’s and ask for help. It was not forthcoming. I had my silver jewelry on and long earrings, city girl, all of which made me more vulnerable because the folks up this way don’t like city people. In fact, their hatred of city people is more intense than I have experienced anywhere.

It all goes back to 1905 when the City of New York asked the State of New York, to grant eminent domain to build a reservoir, the Ashokan Reservoir. Ten towns were “removed” and two others destroyed. Most of the residents of these towns had been there for generations. I had just finished a novella based on this story and it was fresh in my mind. I saw the unfriendly faces at Stewart’s and I understood, but that didn’t make my situation any easier: the manager refused to call the police or to lend me a quarter for the pay phone. I couldn’t even dial 911 without a quarter.

So I took a deep, long breath and looked around. At least it is cool in here, I thought to myself. And there are water bottles. Then a young man behind the ice cream counter smiled at me, a good sign. So I asked him, directly, if he could lend me a quarter. He came over with four. This was brave as he had, in a way, defied his manager. I smiled at him, and thanked him, and he gave me a big, long, knowing smile right back. I asked his name: Jack. Lone dissenter, I thought. Not only is he defying the manager, he’s defying history.

By now, all the customers were paying attention, including those sitting at a couple of tables eating sandwiches. A young man had lead the way into kindness. Then an old woman came up to me and offered me her glasses, a piece of paper, and a pen to write down important phone numbers, she said. She stayed close to me in a very protective way until I reached the Sheriff and then the AAA.

I probably was only in Stewart’s for thirty minutes before the Sheriff arrived. He was a big, burly, sweet-faced Deputy wearing a Stetson hat. He didn't say much, just took out the yellow metal rod and got to it. Within minutes, the door was open. I thanked him, he smiled, and had me sign a piece of paper.

Back inside Stewart’s, I repaid the quarters to Jack and offered him a “reward,” but he refused to take my money apart from what he’d loaned me. And so I announced, to all who were present, that Jack was a fine young man and his parents should be proud of him. He had helped me without expectation of reward.

By this time, the guardian angel who had loaned me her glasses had left. I still have the pen and paper she gave me in the glove compartment of my car where I will keep it as a memento of my day.
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