Nora

My head in the innards of book publication this week, I emerged this morning to the news of Nora Ephron’s death Tuesday night and a little of me died, as well. Who will carry the banner of oxymoronic light-hearted love?

Since the iconic tale of When Harry Met Sally, romantic comedy has morphed into something far more graphic and dis-tasteful than the days of Adam’s Rib. Nothing much is left to the imagination. Suffice-it-to-say, imagination itself has withered under the influence of tell-it-all film and graphic novels like Shades of Gray. I sound like my grandmother…but I digress.

As writers, we strive to paint pictures in the minds of our readers, some more detailed than others. But, the art of good writing, I believe, is in the nuance; the coaxing of an image that exists only in the readers mind; a unique quality that can never be reproduced in another. The magic of the subtly written word creates something beyond the intellect. It converts thought to image and story to a screen inside the mind. The reader becomes part of the creation in a very real way.

Nora knew this. She created subtle words spoken on the screen that evoked story-lines in the minds of her fans as they identified with her outlook on the male-female dance. Her films were outlines. He fans were the real writers. This is genius.

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