Robert Gottlieb, one of the most celebrated English-language book editors of the 20th century, once told the Paris Review that “the editor’s relationship to a book should be an invisible one.”
Gottlieb was referring to readers when he said that, not to writers. With all his writers, from Joseph Heller to Toni Morrison, Gottlieb was decidedly, and sensitively, hands-on.
“Somehow, to be helpful,” he said in that same interview, “an editor has to embody authority yet not become possessive or controlling.”
And therein lies the inherent friction between writer and editor. The editor has a definite say in the words…
When twenty-something Jane Sloan (Katie Stevens) was fired from her new job as a writer on “Incite,” a sizzling digital news platform invented for the TV drama The Bold Type, I found myself reaching back decades to release a deep sigh of recognition. I could relate. A boss who once fired me from a writing job told me he’d been instructed to hire slow but fire fast.
After getting fired in her first week, Jane wishes she could return to her old job at Scarlet, the self-aware glamour mag she left feeling under-appreciated, ready to stretch her wings, and where…
The Danish cookies sit up in their little white paper cups inside the blue tin, waiting for any of the gathered mourners craving a rush of pebbled sugar. The only one who does is the widow herself. Everyone else is too busy showing off their grief.
But the widow knows she had dispensation to do whatever the hell she wants, and she wants a cookie to stave off a sudden touch of lightheadedness resulting not from grief but from feeling as though hydrogen balloons are billowing beneath her black dress.
She came to me.
Biting down on something hard, chewing…
Who whispered in John’s ear on the rooftop above Savile Row:
Only eleven years to go, man. Think about it.
Who warned Toni or Emily she wouldn’t have time
to ink all the stories onto the pages.
Who sang to the meadowlark, a dangerous tune
of a nest robbed of its fledglings.
Who ran down the side of Mount Vesuvius
lamenting all the unfinished business.
Who counseled Jesus to withdraw from public life
before atrocities could be committed in his name.
Who preached peace in the midst of war,
dying by the hands of violence after all.
Who seeded the clouds from above to force
rain down upon a parched land.
Who came to tell me everyone would be
just fine and really, we can all stop worrying.
Amy L. Bernstein writes for the page, the stage, and forms in between.
Our conversation pauses once we decipher the cargo
wedged into geometrically heaped crates on the truck in front of us,
hundreds of chickens releasing a random snowstorm of white feathers
blowing wildly on the wind like cherry blossoms just off the bloom
birds on their way to the slaughterhouse,
unwitting accomplices to their own demise, yet at the end
releasing superfluous feathers like soft messengers of lives lived:
I was here.
the truck already smothered by the guilty stench of death,
the trucker thinking perhaps about lunch or taking a piss,
the chickens transforming into martyrs,
objects of pity and…
This spring in the Eastern U.S., millions of Brood X cicadas with bulging red eyes and fat squishy bodies will emerge from the ground and take wing. As many as 1.5 million bugs per acre will click and whirr through the air, smash into windshields, and leave their molted exoskeletons clinging to telephone polls and pet fur.
Many people (not just scientists) find this event, which occurs every 17 years, entertaining, fascinating, even delightful.
I do not. I will return to a Covid-like state of lockdown for at least a few days while this horror movie springs to life.
Compressed to diamond hardness minus the clarity
at the bottom of a steaming garbage mountain in Rio,
beneath the ashes of a Rohingya refugee fire,
in the larynx of a crushed throat,
upon the throes of a death spiral,
screaming for deliverance in a Guantánamo cell,
on the walls of Guernica’s splattered war paint,
lurking between the letters of a conspiracy mash note,
blackened by the mind’s eye where no one listens in,
rotting in the stockyards tended by junkyard dogs,
engraved by goose quill on moth-eaten parchment,
abandoned at birth, death, in between,
perching on a pillow of bitter cement —
stories stolen, swollen, swallowed whole,
leaving us in fragments like scraps of papyrus
languishing inside a tomb.
Your new novel is progressing nicely. Perhaps you’re 30,000 or 40,000 words in — far enough along to establish a rhythm. You have a clear idea of how the story ends and you’re excited to take the journey that will get you (and your characters) to the big finish.
Then you and your novel trip and fall into a giant vat of pudding. It’s cold, squishy, slippery, and quite difficult — tricky, really — to climb out of.
There’s a chance you’ll drown. Or suffocate. …
When winds of spring whistle straight through your bones
and divebomb your soul like winds of war,
leaving behind cratered expectations,
you wish a different season would blow in,
launch a new offensive to bleach those bones,
grind and polish those bones until
they glow like laundered sheets on a line
so when the wind whips back around,
your bones may rise, dance, begin again.
I never imagined I’d be the one to get it. I told friends and family, only half in jest, that I wouldn’t get sick. I rarely caught even a common cold. Still, I was not foolhardy. I took all recommended precautions, remaining indoors for weeks at a stretch, wearing a mask everywhere, washing my hands vigorously, avoiding all crowds.
Last August, on the third day of our planned month-long respite at my husband’s family’s isolated cabin in rural Vermont, 600 miles from home and forty minutes from the nearest hospital, the virus attacked. The onset of Covid was swift, merciless…
I write to learn — how to think, how to live, how to be — in a world that has never made much sense to me. Novels, essays, poems. Whatever the moment demands.