Seriously, why not? This is my first Ephron book I've ever picked up and I could kick myself for not enjoying it sooner.
My dad actually recommended this collection of essays to me when I was in college. This is important because my dad doesn't read. As I've mentioned in my modest little bio on the side, he finds it "laborious." So, for that matter, does my boyfriend, my brother, my cousin, my cousin's boyfriend, several close friends, my cat and pretty much every teenager spark-noting Grapes of Wrath. My boyfriend put it plainly in a discussion about his favorite books. "Mmeeehhhh," he said, "books are long." I was unamused at first, but that's just it. Books really are long. In the pentagon of entertainment: movies, TV shows, songs, plays, and books, books take the longest to finish. Movies and plays can be knocked out in a few hours. Whole albums can be listened to in even less time. A novel or memoir requires long-distance focus, which is not common--and for the gosh damn record, is not the fault of Kids Today. I'm tired of Kids Today being pinioned as an army of jackasses who can't focus long enough to get past five whole pages without so much as a doodle in between. People have always purchased more books than they've read, and started more books than they've finished. Human nature dictates a struggle with long-distance. Well, my marathon fearing friends, fear no more.
I Feel Bad About My Neck is immediately funny, consistently insightful, and evokes a range emotions from amused, curious, bereft and ultimately, satisfied. What's more, you'll finish it in less than a day. Seriously, it took me eight hours total, and I've been tested for A.D.D. twice. Ephron's one of those authors we've all heard of, and have no reason to believe her books won't be worth our time, yet we droll out, "Yeah, sure, I'll get to it." Well, get to it, damnit.
As the almighty New York Times said, "Nora Ephron can write about anything better than anyone can write about anything." There are whole fractions of me that believe this. The woman writes about her neck. Her neck! How can that possibly be interesting? She didn't get it slashed in a knife-fight, there's no snake tattoo coiled around it hissing the cursive name of a lover and for all we know, there aren't even any hickeys. Somehow, though, her neck is amazing--outstanding in its intricacies and nuances (I don't know what a nuance is, but what the hell). She may not write about anything better than anyone can write about anything, but I'm sure that no one has surmised the neck like one, Nora Ephron.
She writes well about other non-assuming things. For instance, the phonebook:
"I miss the telephone book... I miss what it stood for. Self-sufficiency. Democracy. The belief that you could find what you were looking for in a place that everyone in the world had access to."
Ask a crowded room what they think represents democracy, and you'll hear not an utterance about the phonebook. Especially not now, since phonebooks are scary and foreign next to our amazing little phones you can yell someone's name at to make a call.
Anyway.
Ephron, a writer I very much wish was still among us (not that I would meet her, nor know what to do if I met her), left us all a fantastic book you'll finish in what feels like one sitting, compared to the fat novels and bios resting on the coffee table. I zipped right through it and it takes me a whole morning and better part of the afternoon to get through the side of a cereal box.
Chances are, someone has recommended this to you, and you have not read it, like me until now. Instead, we reached for the flashier cover, or the more popular fantasy kick. Having finally read it, I can assure you, we were missing out.
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