Back in the ‘70s I read her column in Esquire, when Esquire was THE hot magazine. Whipped to her column first thing. Nora Ephron was wise and funny in an endearing way. She wrote about whatever she felt like, both public and private. She said the beginnings of articles are always better than the endings, because when you retype pieces you redo the beginnings. Not so endings.
That was back when the dinosaurs were alive and there were no computers.
Nora was funny, but with a point, not just funny to be funny.
Nora did everything. She wrote essays, novels, plays, screenplays, directed movies. You’ve Got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle, they don’t get better. She was both clever and connected. Her parents were famous screenwriters and she even got Meryl Streep to play herself in Heartburn. “One of the best things about directing movies, as opposed to merely writing them, is that there’s no confusion about who’s to blame: you are.”
You name it, she did it. She used her life, but not in an exploitative way. Obsessive about her person, she had her hair blown out a couple times a week, “It’s cheaper by far than psychoanalysis and much more uplifting.”
You’ve noticed the past tense of course.
Nora Ephron died today. Sigh.
I still want to be Nora Ephron…maybe there’s an opening, but I don’t think so.
If there’s a way to write funny from the beyond, she’ll figure it out.