A few weeks ago, I watched Everything is Copy, a documentary about Nora Ephron by her son, Jacob Bernstein, a New York Times journalist. He probed his mother’s life and her adage that created the title of the doc, the notion that everything, and everyone, in a life is fodder. Ephron’s family, friends and foes showed up in her writing.
But one of the central explorations for Bernstein was the question of why, when diagnosed with an illness that would eventually take her life, did his mother keep that to herself?
I’ve always been a reluctant writer of memoir. I considered that if I ever wrote from a personal perspective it would be deeply rooted in journalistic distance, that I would always be more fascinated by the life external, rather than internal. Once I pivoted away from that standpoint, I’ve found something deeply unsettling about writing about my life choices. It’s been both healing and hindering.
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Ephron came to the limits of what was copy for her, for reasons her friends could only speculate on, long after her death. Being anchored back in a place that had been copy for me, surrounded by people who had been copy, is making me question what my own limits are as a memoirist.
This is a big, transfixing question. A question not solved by a blog, or a book or the treatise of academics and prolific life writers. This is a wholly individual question, answerable only day by day, line by line. Acknowledging that it has become a difficult question for me to answer is just the first salvo in this battle.