Randy is just one of the many interesting people out here whom I’ve met.

Just read this fabulous screenplay. A remake of Camus’s The Stranger with Meursault as a bi break-dancing punk rocker. Randy showed it to me. I loved it. Randy thinks “basically unfilmable” and that filming an orange rolling around a parking lot for three hours would draw a bigger audience.

Well, I hope you do manage to write me, but if you don’t … well, what can I say?

Love,

Anne

Nov 20 1983

Dear Sean,

I have to tell you more about Randy (remember? the studio exec?). He and I went up to his house on Mulholland, where we sat on his patio and watched the sunset. The moon was full and already visible as the sun was going down. Everything was so still and all there was was Randy and myself and his Ferrari, the wind, the jacuzzi, the deepening colors of the sky. We shared a joint (yes, I smoked a little of it) and I thought of how lovely and relaxing it was to be away from everything and everyone. It helps me think more clearly, feel more clearly. Especially out in Palm Springs, where I am completely surrounded by desert—it’s so comforting. You figure it out. I’m sure there is a psychological explanation for it. But I feel so mellow, so peaceful, so relaxed. And I think I help Randy too. When he tells me that he feels hollow and lost, I tell him not to be and he seems to understand. I’ve written some more stuff and when he isn’t tired he reads it and even though all he really says is that it’s a little more commercial than my earlier stuff and would probably do okay in foreign markets—it’s still constructive criticism, right? I think he’s right most of the time.

Randy’s helped me so much in the last couple of months. He’s made me less defensive. He has traveled so much, experienced so much and read so much more than I have. I trust his opinions. He is really my best friend here. The person to whom I confide everything. It’s a little amazing-here I am in Los Angeles and my closest friend is a thirty-year-old studio executive. Life is odd, isn’t it?

Listen, do take care of yourself and if you do find some spare time, I’d love to hear from you. By the way, if you want to call me you can get me either at my grandparents’ house (213-275-9008) or at the studio (just ask for Anne) or at Randy’s place (986-2030; it’s unlisted). So if you’re in the mood.

Love,

Anne

Nov 27 1983

Dear Sean,

Hi! So I’m sitting in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel visiting some friends of Randy’s. I just got my best night’s sleep since I’ve been in L.A. (I was taking tranquilizers for a while which really, like, screwed up my sleeping habits.) So far today I’ve done nothing but watch MTV and lie out by the pool. I told Randy (you remember Randy, don’t you?) and some other people that I might go out with them tonight but I might not. Oh dear, what a life. Did I tell you that I’ve been lying about my age? Everyone out here seems so young, is so young, that I’ve begun to feel old so I tell everyone that I’m seventeen or eighteen (I’m twenty). Randy thinks I’m sixteen. Can U believe it? A lot of the time I have to remind myself, yes, Anne, you are a college sophomore. It’s curious and a little confusing but I guess it’s not so very important. Well, I’ve got to go now. Drop me a letter? A note? Please?

Love,

Anne

Nov 30 1983

Dear Sean,

So here I am again writing to you. A lot of people are going out to Palm Springs this weekend. It’s kind of hard to say no. I had a dream with you in it a few nights ago. (Me and my weird dreams—remember the one I told you about last term? I was so interested in that one that I wrote a paper for a psychology class two terms ago. Don’t worry, though—no names were mentioned! Why didn’t I tell you this at the time? Probably because I thought you’d be embarrassed.) This dream was pretty strange. You were living in L.A. and we were both a lot older and you invited me to your birthday party and I had to fly from somewhere and had a horrible time of it. Then the rest of the dream was about the party. Everyone who was there was old and it was depressing because no one had really changed and even though it was wonderful to see you and you were as endearing as ever, I felt strange and out of place and I hated everyone. Not really hated but just couldn’t cope.

Sean, I’m really thinking seriously about staying here a little longer. I’ve sort of forgotten what New York and Camden look like and I’ve forgotten a lot of faces from there and I don’t know if I can face going back. I probably won’t stay here but I’ve been thinking about it. I’m dreading seeing those people who I called my friends. I’d rather stay out here and not, as you so often put it, “deal with it,” y’know? Everyone out here lives such exciting and interesting lives, going back seems so anticlimactic. (God, this letter is awfully meandering—I wonder if it makes any sense to you. If you find it unintelligible, then promise me you’ll be nice enough to skim over it, okay?)