As a writer currently immersed in the genre of memoir, I took an interest in Nora Ephron’s latest offering called I Remember Nothing. Given the few reviews I’ve read, the title is accurate. Ephron likes to celebrate the personal and her current gala is about how she’s handling aging. Sure it ain’t pretty, but do we really need another set of bad quips and feeble attempts at humor to remind us. Yet this lightweight volume gets all the press and attention a publicist can offer.
You know that old cliche about the 1960s: “If you remember anything about the 60s, you weren’t there.” I beg to differ. I remember everything and I was there. With that in mind, it seems to me it takes a mighty dose of chutzpah to write a memoir with Ms. Ephron’s title. How does this little volume get published anyway? I fear I know the answer, and you do too.
Some of the readers of Ephron’s book are demanding their money back. Some actually paid full hardcover price. One disgruntled customer suggested that Nora Ephron’s fans get a latte, sit down in your favorite bookstore with chairs and consume both simultaneously. Apparently that’s the time it takes.
If life isn’t fair, then trying to get a book published is just as big a crapshoot. But then you knew that. No sour grapes please. Just remember to remember and then write it all down.