SO MANY OF THE fears and anxieties that drove so much of my life are now dormant. I hop on a plane like a cheerful flight attendant. Wherever I am, if one of my crazy “symptoms” pops up, I flick it off. And when a crisis arises in the world, which seems an almost daily occurrence, I no longer expect to be annihilated by it. Which is kind of amusing, because in the past my fears were highly unlikely to be realized, while today, when worrying would be far from unreasonable, I’m at relative peace.
Bob and I have been together since November 1991—at this writing, almost twenty-five years. It’s the longest relationship that I’ve had by far, and I still cannot conceive of how the time went so quickly.
When we met, not one of Bob’s children was married. Today, all three are, with seven fantastic children among them. What a transformation for me, coming from a small family. I embrace them all and love being called Grandma Carole.
My son, Cristopher, is now thirty years old. He works for Universal Music and is smart and funny and kind, and I love him dearly. I have not written about his adulthood, or about my three wonderful stepchildren, Linda, Bobby, and Brian, because I want to respect their lives and their journeys. Their stories are for them to tell in their own time. I waited until now to tell mine.
Many years ago Neil Simon told me something that must have resonated with me, because here it is again. He shared the story of the first time he ever went to a group therapy session in the early Seventies.
He found ten people sitting around in a circle, ranging in age from the midthirties to about eighty. The male therapist began with “Okay, who wants to share first?”
No hands went up, and finally the therapist said, “How about you, Sophie?” He was looking at the eighty-year-old woman sitting with her arms crossed, holding her pocketbook on her lap, and seeming a little lost. “Why don’t you start?”
Sophie was reluctant, but finally she said, “Vell, it vas Mother’s Day last veek and none of my children came to spend the day vith me. I vas all alone vatching television.”
“And tell us, Sophie,” the therapist asked, “how did that make you feel?”
“Vell, they vere busy, I know my daughter had to go vith her husband’s family and my son had to go vith his vife’s mother, so I stayed home alone, and—”
“And how does that make you feel, Sophie?” the therapist pressed.
“Vell, it makes me feel a little sad, a little disappointed. I vould have liked to maybe have seen Rachel.”
“And tell us, Sophie, what do we say when we are disappointed, and maybe a little angry?” Sophie whispered something no one in the group could possibly hear.
“Louder, Sophie, louder! What do we say when we feel a little sad?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders and said in a voice still too quiet to even be heard, “Fuddoo Izerve.”
“I’m sorry,” the therapist said, “we still can’t hear you. Sophie, what do we say when we’re feeling sad?” he asked again, raising his voice.
She whispered, “Fuck you, I deserve.”
“Louder, Sophie!”
Now in a voice that could be heard in the next apartment, she shouted, “Fuck you, I deserve!”
I don’t know why this story struck me, except that at the time I must have thought I could wind up like Sophie—that age and still in therapy, still complaining about my life.
Thank God that’s not the way it turned out.
Much of my aliveness came from meeting Bob. Much came from spending years and years working on myself with different therapists, psychoanalysts, rebirthers, workshops, Kabbalah teachers, self-help groups, psychics, and healers. I got something from each of them that I needed at the time. And much came from just getting older and finding out so many of the things I feared never came to pass. The moments I thought would kill me clearly didn’t. I wish I could have lived more bravely. When my fears prevented me from participating, my life continued anyway.
HAVING WRITTEN ENDLESS NUMBERS of songs in my life (at last count over four hundred) some certainly ring truer to me than others. There are songs that I’ve written that feel like strangers to me. I’ve completely forgotten about them. I think of a line from a song I wrote with Peter Allen:
All my lines ring but some of them ring truer.
If I never heard some of my songs again, I wouldn’t feel deprived. I wrote them, I may have enjoyed the process, but were I to hear them today, I wouldn’t feel they were a part of me. And then there are the songs that define me, that remind me why I wrote in the first place. My best songs made people feel connected, better, hopeful. Even a shared sadness can help to heal someone who’s feeling completely alone. And that someone was often me.
Just as my very early songs reflected an immaturity that can only be altered by the passing of time, through the years I learned that life never stays the same. For every high there will be a corresponding low. Time heals, and there are no shortcuts to wisdom.
I learned that music is a universal language. When a song reaches its fullest potential it has the power to cross lines and cultures like nothing on the written page can. It’s almost unfair that a love song created sometimes in less than a few hours can hit a common chord across the world, while a book or a play can be slaved over for God knows how long and not have a fraction of that impact.
I learned that people want to be in love. They long to be in love, they pretend to be in love, they think they’re in love, and sometimes they are.
I’ve always believed that the best songs come through us, not from us. In cases where I couldn’t open my heart in real life, I opened it in song, sometimes giving others what I couldn’t give myself. There are songs I’ve written that are my soul songs. They touch my heart: “Come In From the Rain,” “Looking Through the Eyes of Love,” “If He Really Knew Me,” “Someone Else’s Eyes,” “It’s My Turn,” “On My Own,” “That’s What Friends Are For,” and of course, “The Prayer.”
Are they the best songs I’ve written? Some are. But they’re the ones that ring the truest to me. I see my lyrics today as lifesavers, feelings I was able to release and put to music rather than have them fester somewhere in my psyche and manifest as anxiety. They gave me life, they gave me an identity, and I gave them my tears, my heart, and my truth.
MY FRIEND MINDY ONCE told me, “You are holding rhinestones to your breast and God is waiting to give you diamonds.” I didn’t know it then, but it turned out to be true.
Bob takes care of the ones he loves, and he loves me, and I take care of him. He has brought family into my life and into Cristopher’s, and he has made me feel safe. I live a life of privilege that I never dreamed would be attainable. In my world I have access to almost everything and know so many people I never would have imagined I’d ever meet.
I look back now and see all the times that something outside of myself became the only thing that made me feel alive—when I was so hungry to do more, accomplish more, or when I thought the person I was with made me feel like more. Today there is nothing outside myself I covet. I’ve come to a point in my life where I’ve made a delicate peace with myself. That is not to say there might not be border skirmishes, but I’ve learned that external validation is like cotton candy. As you taste it, it bursts into nothing.
Getting off the hamster wheel, I’ve found that happiness comes from within, and multiplies when shared with others. A friend asked me, “How do you get to that place sooner?” My answer is, you don’t. Life is a process and you go through it, and hopefully, one day, you get that aha! moment. Or you don’t.
For so much of my life I only lived on one channel, the creative one, and though I believe this will always be necessary in my life, I know now how much I value connection, compassion, family, deep friendships and love, and how they’ve gained importance through the passing years and nourish my soul.
Every day I wake up grateful to be alive. Every morning I get down on my knees, though since my knee surgeries I now use a pillow, and say my prayer. It sets an intenti
on for the day; it allows me to express my gratitude for the life I am so privileged to live, and to turn my life over for that day to a power greater than me. I thank God for all my blessings and I ask that I go through the day doing what it is He would have me do.
It was very important to Bob that at some point I put this fact in the book. “Why?” I asked him.
“Because I’ve seen you do it every morning since I’ve known you, and sometimes I tell people about it, and they’re always surprised.”
“Why would you tell people about it?” I asked.
“Because I love that you do it. And it just doesn’t sound like something you would do.”
“You love that I do it and it took you twenty-five years to tell me?”
“I had to. I want you to put it in the book.”
Okay, Bob, this is for you. And now, I guess, it’s for anyone who reads this.
Mom and Dad out on the town
Me at age nine performing at camp (I told you I was chunky)
With Neil Sedaka and Peter Allen in New York, 1976
With Peter Allen in LA (at my good weight)
With Marvin on our way to the Oscars
With Marvin and Aretha Franklin
My first album, Carole Bayer Sager, 1977
Performing at the Roxy, 1978
With Marvin and Neil Simon
Three and a half years on Broadway
With Michael Jackson recording “Just Friends” from my album Sometimes Late at Night, 1981
Singing with Neil Diamond, 1981
With Burt and Cristopher
With Nikki Bacharach
Winning the Oscar in 1982 for “Arthur’s Theme” and receiving it from Bette Midler!! (With Peter Allen, Burt Bacharach, Christopher Cross, or, as Bette put it, “Four on a Song!”)
Performing at the Roxy with Burt, 1981
With Elizabeth Taylor, 1992
Bob Dylan kissing Elizabeth Taylor at her fifty-fifth birthday party, 1987
The making of “That’s What Friends Are For”: Elton John, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, Burt, and Dionne Warwick
Elizabeth’s wedding to Larry Fortensky. I was the bridesmaid (next to Michael Jackson) and fortunately not the bride. Cover of People, October 21, 1991
With notables David Geffen, Barbra Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor, and Sandy Gallin at a birthday party Sandy threw for me in Malibu
With Kenny “Babyface” Edmonds and David Foster in my music room
Marrying Bob, June 8, 1996
Receiving my star on Hollywood Boulevard with Carole King, Elizabeth Taylor, David Foster, Neil Simon, Kenny “Babyface” Edmonds, and Henry Winkler, 2000
Writing with Carly Simon and David Foster. If only we’d finished it!
With my friends Bruce Roberts, Barry Manilow, Carole King, and David Foster
With Andrea Bocelli, “The Prayer,” 1999
With Hugh Jackman during my week of performing at the Regency Hotel, November 2003
Enough painting people, let’s paint food! “Torn” from my second art show
Me at my art show with What’s-Their-Names?
With Randy Jackson and Simon Cowell, 2007
With Michael Govan and Lynda Resnick at a celebration of the opening of LACMA’s Resnick Pavilion, 2010
With my cousin Joan
Girlfriends, top row (left to right): Marcia Diamond, Lauren Shuler Donner, Barbara Davis, Ann Moss, Joanne Segel, Alana Stewart, Stacey Winkler, and Mindy Seeger; bottom row (left to right): Elizabeth Taylor, me, and Margie Perenchio
My seven beautiful grandchildren (left to right): Henry, Beatrice, Robert, Julianna, Leo, Quinn, and Felix
Dogs (left to right): Devon and our three bedmates, Benny, Daisy, and Dylan
In front of Chris Burden’s “Urban Light” for the LACMA gala with Cristopher and Bob, 2012
Acknowledgments
BOB, YOU ENCOURAGED AND supported me throughout the process of writing this memoir, as you’ve done throughout our life together. Thank you. I love you so much.
Cristopher, you are your father’s and my best collaboration. I love you dearly and always will.
Mom, I still hear your voice, and know exactly what you would say under any circumstances. You gave me life and I’m ever grateful.
Dad, you loved me unconditionally before I could love myself, and I love you for that.
Linda and Mike, Bobby and Krishna, Brian and Cindy, and my beautiful grandchildren, Leo, Julianna, Quinn, Beatrice, Felix, Henry, and Robert, I cherish that you are my family, and love each of you for being exactly who you are.
Joan Berlly, you are my cousin/sister. We share each other’s history. I love you.
To my extended family: Michael, Anna, and Ben Berlly, Brendon, Lauren, Jordan and Brady Blincoe, Ceil Berman, Eleanor Carley, Trina Greitzer, Lorraine Sinskey, Bobby Nathan, Susan Nathan, and Cecille Krevoy, thank you.
THERE ARE PEOPLE THAT you write a few songs with and never see again. And then there are people that you write with who become lifelong friends, whether or not you ever write with them again.
Melissa Manchester, your magnificent voice and melodies made a tremendous impact on my musical life at its formative stage. Our songs connected us with women who felt as if we were writing just for them. Thank you.
Peter Allen, we shared so much of our beginnings together. You became a great performer and you were special in your songwriting, your wit, and your originality. You remain completely alive within me today.
Marvin Hamlisch, “America’s Composer,” my gratitude could fill this whole section. You were the musical genius I not only got to know and love, but to share such a peak of creativity with in the years we were together, and well beyond. Some of my favorite songs are ours, and I miss you with all my heart.
Burt Bacharach, you are so much a part of this book and of my life, and are a true musical legend. (And yes, genius.) We shared some of my highest musical moments together. You remain today a wonderful father and someone dear to me, and you provided me with some of the best material for this book.
Bruce Roberts, we met in New York in the Seventies. You were young and marvelously musical. Writing together was always fun. I’m so glad we got to share so many wonderful memories from back in the day and laugh with the comfort and knowledge that we will always remain friends.
Bette Midler, I am so awed by your extraordinary talent. Even before we met at the Continental Baths, I was your biggest fan. And now, forty-odd years later, I still am that fan who adores you and feels grateful that you are also my dear friend.
Carole King, you know how inspired I have always been by your extraordinary talent. The time we enjoyed writing together, and the friendship that was forged, means the world to both Bob and me.
Carly Simon, writing with you allowed me to hear your oh-so-famous voice right next to my ear, and our half-written songs are waiting right here for you to come back and help finish them.
David Foster, you are one of the few effortlessly musical people I have ever known. You inspire me with your melodies, you make me laugh with your wicked sense of humor, and you humble me with your constant generosity. One word I’ve never heard from you is “No,” and you occupy a very special place in my heart.
Kenny Edmonds, I love you for your voice that sang “Silent Night” and transported me to someplace that felt close to heaven, for your great songwriting and producing skills, and for your keen intelligence and insight into so many things other than music, all of which make you and Nikki so essential in my life.
With all of the above, it’s not about the level of success we achieved, it’s about the connections made that have woven through the fabric of my life, and have made each of you part of my family.
Sandy Gallin, you are the brother I never had. Talented, funny, and kind, you welcomed me into your world and embraced me with your giant heart, and to this day serve as an example to live every day completely, squeezing out as much pleasure as possible. I will love you forever.
> David Geffen, you are my touchstone for reality. Aside from Bob, there is no one whose left-brain opinions and insights I have ever trusted more. So much of the wisdom you’ve shared with me through the years has become tenets by which I live, and my life would be infinitely diminished without you in it. I love you.
Mindy Seeger, you have seen, helped, and shared my struggle from the earliest incarnation of this book. You embody every aspect of what a great friend should be. And my love and thanks are endless.
Stacey Winkler, Margie Perenchio, Alana Stewart, Lynda Resnick, Ann Moss, Lauren Shuler Donner, Marcia Diamond, and Joanne Segel, you have been the supportive sisters who have held my hand and laughed and cried with me on this journey called life, as were these women who left my world too early and live inside my heart today: Elizabeth Taylor, Evelyn Ostin, Nora Ephron, Marci Lakos, and Madeline Kahn.
Jane and Terry Semel: Terry, you are Bob’s best friend and will always be. Nobody ever understood how the two of you did it but you did it with ease, mutual respect, and love. And I have additional respect for you, Jane, for taking on challenges that would defeat many others and still finding what’s funny inside of them. We are always here for you.
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