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A review by aschwartau
I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman by Nora Ephron
3.0
I wanted so much more from this and thought I would like it way more than I did. It was short, so I guess there's that?
She's a good writer and a natural-born storyteller, with a distinct voice full of wit. But all of the essays were soooo superficial and lacking substance that I just. did. not. care.
A lot of it felt dated. So many of the essays focused on tired ideas of what it is to be a woman. She wastes so much energy complaining about shallow shit, lamenting fashion trends and hair dye upkeep and skincare. With her background in journalism and her years working in the film industry, you know she must have MANY stories about being the only woman in the writer's room, about the uphill battle a female reporter faced, about what drew her to so-called female films and romcoms, tales to add to the #metoo cannon.
BUT NO. It was all so surface level. I do not care about the lines around your eyes; I want to know what you've seen and lived and learned.
I did really like the one essay about her fears and anxieties about the elderly years and death. It felt far more raw and vulnerable and honest. I relate strongly to those fears and anxieties, getting old scares the hell out of me, and I found many of her observations and insights rather moving. It was a really lovely essay.
And then the book ended.
Alas.
She's a good writer and a natural-born storyteller, with a distinct voice full of wit. But all of the essays were soooo superficial and lacking substance that I just. did. not. care.
A lot of it felt dated. So many of the essays focused on tired ideas of what it is to be a woman. She wastes so much energy complaining about shallow shit, lamenting fashion trends and hair dye upkeep and skincare. With her background in journalism and her years working in the film industry, you know she must have MANY stories about being the only woman in the writer's room, about the uphill battle a female reporter faced, about what drew her to so-called female films and romcoms, tales to add to the #metoo cannon.
BUT NO. It was all so surface level. I do not care about the lines around your eyes; I want to know what you've seen and lived and learned.
I did really like the one essay about her fears and anxieties about the elderly years and death. It felt far more raw and vulnerable and honest. I relate strongly to those fears and anxieties, getting old scares the hell out of me, and I found many of her observations and insights rather moving. It was a really lovely essay.
And then the book ended.
Alas.