I was on Twitter late this afternoon when I saw a tweet from the New York Times with the breaking news that Ephron, my idol, my heroine, the woman who inspired me to become a writer in the first place, had died of leukemia at age 71. I didn’t even know she was sick. I was devastated. The obituary by Charles McGrath was wonderful, and I have no doubt that Ephron herself would have applauded it. But still. I just can’t believe she’s gone.
How do I count the ways I loved her?
I’ll start with the books. From her early collection of columns and her autobiographical novel Heartburn to her more recent books about aging, I Feel Bad About My Neck and I Remember Nothing, her writing had a major influence on me. She taught me that women could be smart and funny and truthful – the heroines of their own stories, never the victim of them. She made writing look easy enough that I felt emboldened to try it, even as her short, simple sentences were the essence of perfect comic timing. She had a unique way of saying something caustic and cynical even as she allowed us to see what a romantic she was. I’ve re-read all of her books so many times that I can practically recite her words from memory.
And then there were her films. I admired how she came from the print world – the journalism world – and yet plunged headlong into screenwriting with Silkwood and, soon after, hit her stride with When Harry Met Sally. She became the queen of writer-directors, never failing to carry the torch for stories about women. Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail were as charming and sweet as they were witty and sly, and nobody’s written a romantic comedy since with her level of sophistication.
Even her opinion pieces in newspapers, magazines and blogs were knowing and clever. She had a gift, plain and simple. I’m so damn sad that there won’t be more coming from her fertile mind.
I think I’ll celebrate her life tonight by pulling out my dogeared copy of Heartburn – for the 7,000th time.
Jane…I’m so sorry. Heartfelt condolences. Honestly — as soon as I read about her demise, the very first person I thought of was you.
I wondered how much of an influence and an inspiration she had been. No need to wonder any further. Didn’t know anything about her work in movies until reading her obit. But “Silkwood” too? Wow…
Enough from me. There are certain musicians who, when they go, will elicit real tears from me, so I can relate in my own small way. Think of yourself as passing her legacy onward with your work…as I will…
That’s lovely, Dave. Thanks.
Jane,
Yesterday when I heard this I was so sad and moved.
My husband asked me why this affected me so much when I didn’t know her. But I felt I did.
I explained to him all the books I have read and reread of hers. Her books line my book cases.
All the movies we’ve both seen.
Our favorite movie, which to us is based on our lives, When Harry Met Sally.
He got it then.
She just was a great broad.
She was recently on a show with her sister being interviewed by Cynthia McFadden and they finished each others sentences and were so darn funny and smart.
They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.
RIP Nora.
Isn’t it interesting how all the women I know felt the same way, Peg? We didn’t know her but it was like losing a friend. I wish I’d seen her interview with Delia. Maybe it’s on YouTube.
I always joked that I wished Nora Ephron would write the screenplay of our life, titled ‘4 Homes and Homeless.’ I enjoyed (though tearful) hearing stories from the people who knew her well….sounds like being a good friend of hers was like winning the lottery.
What a good way to put it about her friendships, Ruth. You’re so right – she sounds like the type of friend who would drop everything to be supportive but who would also tell you the truth and tell it funny. I still can’t believe she’s not around anymore.
I’m not someone who spends my time feeling close to celebrities I’ve never met, any more than celebrities I’ve never met spend their time feeling close to me. But Nora Ephron proves to be the one great exception. Never have I felt such a sense of sorrow and personal loss at the death of someone I didn’t know. Of course, like you, I FELT I knew her. Her humor was so spontaneous and engaging and infectious, but I suppose it was the warmth I most responded to. It radiated through the screen in every TV interview I saw and I wish she’d done more of them. On occasion, I got to see her in person, at the 92nd Street Y in NYC or interviewed by her son at the Dalton School, his (and my) alma mater.
She was 13 months older than me, so we inhabited the same era. She was Wellesley, Class of ’62 and I was Smith, Class of ’64. We were both New Yorkers, I native, she by choice. We both entered publishing in the ’60s — she in magazine, I in book. We both became writers — she hugely successful, me mostly un-.
I’ve never crashed anything in my life, but I wanted desperately to crash her memorial service. Alas, the secret of where and what time (the date WAS revealed in advance) went unleaked or at least it wasn’t leaked where I could find it. I do keep hoping that at some point there will be a memorial held for “civilians” — non-celebrities who felt they knew her and will miss her terribly. She’s already had the service whe wanted (and “directed” in absentia.) A second, more modest one couldn’t hurt, could it?
Thanks for providing a forum to share these thoughts.
Best wishes,
Nancy Stark, NYC
Hi, Nancy. Thanks for sharing your thoughts. They really do echo mine and those of so many other women, and it’s so interesting, isn’t it? To feel such a sense of loss about someone we didn’t know personally? I wish I’d seen her at the Y because I love the television interviews she gave – always so witty and observant. I wanted to crash her memorial too! And if there’s one for “civilians,” let me know. I just feel that the light has gone out since she died, especially when I think about the landscape of films these days; her contributions were always those I looked forward to. So you’re a writer? Of books? Tell me more….