FOUR DAYS AT THE RANCH

Ms. Fonda,

I just watched an interview you gave on Charlie Rose’s show. This was during the time your second book had been published. As often happens, I enjoyed it. Listening to someone speak who has gained wisdom and is kind enough to share it is both insightful and special. In the interview, you mentioned Ms. Hepburn and what she taught you as both an actress and as a human being living her third act. As I sat watching, I realized that you have been handed the baton; you are becoming, in the most glorious way, the “arch.”

At 42 years old, I have already begun my life review. In fact, I seem always to have done it. The reason, I think, has to due with my father’s death, which occurred when I was a child. Given that he died when I was nine years old, I was struck by mortality’s inevitability at a very young age. Watching someone as he or she approaches the end of his or her life has a way of shedding from such an equation that which becomes more or less inconsequential. The important things remain.

Were my father and I close? Yes, we were. Never contentious. But he was a quiet man, in no way extroverted. Really, I’ve always been closer to my mother. Her strength, her courage, her beauty, her ability to survive and to give to others — these are qualities whose importance has not been lost on me.

In the interview, you spoke of regrets. One of the central ones was to reach the end of your life and not to have known real, authentic intimacy.

This is a regret that I have. It’s not about sex. I went through years during which I thought sex would fill a void. But then I realized that sex is an expression of love; it is not love in the whole sense of the emotion. Sex without love leaves one feeling rather empty.

But it’s difficult for me to get genuinely close to others. I’m a nice person; I’m polite to others; I’m a good listener. For some reason people find me intelligent and come to me when they’ve problems and are seeking advice. I do my best to offer kind, pragmatic advice. It’s something at which I must be adept, for it continues to happen. But allowing others to be really close to me? To actually see me? It doesn’t happen.

In Klute, there’s a scene in which Bree is talking with her therapist, and Bree talks about her budding relationship with John Klute. Bree is very confused by it, for it seems she can’t get past allowing another human being to see her for the person she really is. And, as a result, she finds herself trying to destroy it. She wishes she didn’t, but there it is.

That is, essentially, my experience with regard to the relationships I’ve had. I haven’t been involved in a romantic relationship in fourteen years. It’s not that I mind being alone, as it were; it’s the loneliness that I find to be the problem. Years ago, when I still considered myself active in relationships, I’d let it go only so far before I sabotaged it. I didn’t realize it at the time, not really; but with hindsight, I can now discern a pattern.

I’ve made concessions in my life, and about them I do not complain. I’ve never married, but I have a family: mother, sister, niece, and nephew. Upon me they depend. I don’t see it as a burden; I’m glad I can be here for them. But that, writing, studying film, eating, sleeping, and working comprise the whole of my existence. I tell myself, This is the life you’ve chosen. Be grateful for it. And I must be, for I don’t feel betrayed or as if I’ve been cheated.

So what’s the problem then? I find I’m asking myself again and again.

I guess I’m still, in part, that nine-year-old child who is still seeking answers. Who feels so much, yet is frightened to let others inside that very private circle that is himself. I’ve felt this for so long that it’s become commonplace, as natural as breathing. And it has damaged my sense of self-worth. People speak of how smart I am (“John’s brilliant,” friends and family say), and while it’s flattering, I have trouble believing it. Often what I feel like is a fraud.

I’m 42, still young-looking (I still get carded believe it or not), and I’m considered a great person. To pay the bills, I wait tables, and always I earn the nicest compliments and have guests who return to see me. I suppose this is because I genuinely love serving others. I offer them a part of myself, but the element of professionalism provides a buffer.

But again there rises always the feeling: I’m not good enough. Even with my writing. People who’ve read my work speak highly of it. But I look at my work, realize it’s good, and yet cannot truly FEEL it. Self-doubt rises up. That little voice in my head scoffs and speaks in a demeaning tone: You think you’re a writer? Others say you’re a writer and you’ve talent? Ha! What do they know? What do YOU know?

With regard to my writing, I’m not interested in fame. It’s not about that. What excites me is the idea of the collaborative endeavor: of one day working with great people, disturbing the molecules in the air, and working together toward a similar vision; of taking that vision and offering it to others for purposes of entertainment and instruction. To me, that’s what art is at its best.

Am I perfectionist? I try not to be one. I recall something you said to Patty Duke back in 1986. It was after you’d made The Morning After and TMC was having an awards month. You were up that year for The Morning After, and TMC was showing Klute. Ms. Duke asked you about perfection, to which you said that if your goal was to be perfect every time and only to win awards — “Shhht! Paralysis!” were your words.

I’ve always remembered that. It is my mantra. And yet my sense of self-worth — for myself and my work — seems always to be consigned to the fathomless depths.

And it feeds this fear I have — a fear I want and need so desperately to shed. The idea of reaching 50 and still being plagued by regrets — both personally and artistically — terrifies me.

Am I afraid to succeed? I ask myself. Am I trying to sabotage my art as I have my relationships? Could that be it? And if so, what to do?

Please forgive me. I’m not used to exposing my feelings this way; of eschewing what that little voice in my head is saying (at the moment: You’ll delete this message; you’ll never send it; you haven’t the nerve) and allowing myself to be emotionally naked and vulnerable in front of another person.

But I admire you so very much. And these are internal conflicts with which you’ve dealt. You’ve written and spoken of them with such bravery and honesty.

What I’m saying is I’m directionless, treading water, and have nowhere else to turn. And I don’t want to be this way. But everything I do to try to change it doesn’t work. Sometimes it seems the very things I love artistically are becoming anathema to me. Which is extremely terrifying.

Sorry to lay this on your doorstep. But perhaps you know of how one can locate and point the compass. Wit’s end is what it is.

And, that mocking little voice be damned, I’m hitting “Submit Comment” before I give myself the chance to change my mind.

Warm regards,

John