In the Summer of 2002, I attended a writers conference at what was then called Southampton College. The reason was two-fold: I had recently finished a screenplay I wanted to toss around in a workshop. And, Nora Ephron would be speaking. (Not necessarily in that order.)Image

In my pre-conference delusions, I envisioned Nora dropping in on my workshop and being taken with my romantic comedy. She would declare me her protégé, and we’d ride off into the Hollywood sunset, the new, Ephron-Werner writing team.

What transpired was more like this:

She never came to our workshop. I stood in line after her remarks one evening, and asked her to sign my copy of Crazy Salad. As she did, I told her: I admire how you write across genres! You are one of my writing inspirations! I love your films, and I attended the conference largely because of you!

At least, that’s how I remember it. Whatever I said, I’m pretty sure I gushed. And it was, in the writing sense, as though I declared my love to her.

Her verbal response: (deadpan) “Thanks.”

Her ocular response, looking past me: “Next!”

To say the least, I was disappointed. But the experience also felt strangely perfect the way it was. Like it had been scripted.

And, it resulted in some copy. So again, I can imagine, Nora would be pleased.