This is what I learned – rather, what was hilariously reinforced – tonight by reading I Remember Nothing by Nora Ephron. (I should mention that I am reading Nora’s new book instead of going to the gym. And because I’m writing about what I read, I feel less guilty for not going to the gym. Will I feel guilty when, in an hour, I devour homemade pancakes with maple syrup and scrambled eggs for dinner? I can’t quite say.)
But back to what I read.
In her essay “Journalism: A Love Story,” Nora writes about her experience as a budding journalist working at Newsweek magazine in 1962.
We often worked until three in the morning on Friday nights, and then we had to be back at work early Saturday, when the Nation and Foreign departments closed. It was exciting in its own self-absorbed way: you truly come to believe that you are living in the center of the universe and that the world out there is on tenterhooks waiting for the next copy of whatever publication you work at.
For my fellow writers reading this tonight and not going to the gym, here’s to us. And to our craft. And to what we do that makes us crazy one minute, and deliriously happy the next. May everyone find their similar passion in life – but still find time to exercise. Every few days or so.