Dearest Kit

***This story is now also available on Radish for free! I will be uploading the sequel there in the next couple of weeks. Thanks, Lily x***

Dearest Kit, 

I am not sure why I have addressed you as simply Kit, as I have no personal connection to you; Christopher just seemed too formal. Christopher is the name of an upperclass gentleman, some bureaucratic Englishman who sits in his drawing room all day smoking an ivory pipe. Christopher is too harsh, Christopher is too serious.  

I wanted to tell you how much I admire you for your films, for your acting. I'm not talking about the famous ones, the ones which have made you known, although I can admit to seeing them all. Lights is one of my favourite films of all time, I enjoy it more each time I watch it; the lighting, the film angles, the framing. I would have watched it more if I could find the DVD, but it seems near impossible to track down. No other film portrays the awkwardness of young adulthood. I can identify with your character on more than a few levels. 

Tears for Helena was just as lovely, something beautifully poetic which you don't often find in modern movies, a sense of the dramatic. It reminded me of vintage, black and white movies set in the thirties or forties. I have never read the novel and so cannot truly compare the original to the film; I've always wanted to, yet never found the time. When you were preparing for the role, did you skim through a copy, and if so, what were your thoughts on it?  

A couple of years ago I read a book which was written impeccably; which had such an incredible, unpredictable plot that each time you peeled back the page, you had no idea what was waiting for you on the other side. It had a profound effect on me, not because of the moral of the story or the tragic ending, because Don de Lillo's words seemed to sink to the bottom of my stomach and stay there, for days, slowly being digested by my subconscious. It was all I could think about, and all I could dream about; it engulfed me. 

When I found out that they were transforming Americana into a big, Hollywood film, and that you would be playing the principal role, I had my doubts. I didn't want them to overdo it, to spend too much money on the special effects or the settings. If it was going to be true to the book, it needed to stay raw. I thought about it a lot, debating whether or not I would go see it, or simply read the reviews in the tabloids, but then I thought about Lights. I reminded myself that you were good, and that you were dedicated to a role, and that you can act! Christopher Ainsworth isn't just a pretty face, I'm sure of it, and that's something which many people don't give you credit for. 

I don't know why I have written this letter, and it is doubtful that anyone will ever read it. It will be sent, off into the oblivion of the internet, and then a cold, lifeless box with send back a pre-written, carefully composed reply. I'm not blaming you, I'm simply stating the facts. In any case, the themes of this letter had been floating around my head and to stop them sticking I needed to expel the words from my body, to transfer them through my fingertips and onto the computer screen. Wherever this letter goes, whoever it reaches, the words needed to be written, they needed to be said. 

I'm sorry you're sad. 

Yours Admiringly, 

Lana

P.S. The sound of your voice makes me feel safe. I know this is an unusual phrase, but there is no other way to explain. 

~

I felt odd after I had sent the email, hitting the send button and transferring my long ramble of a letter across the infinite gaps in the internet until it landed at it's destination. I had waited days before composing the letter. I would lie in bed and the words would instantly conjure up in my mind until it was all I could think about. I didn't want to write it, because I knew no-one would ever read it, but it seemed the only way to stop my brain from obsessing. 

Along with this sense of relief, came an unexpected clench in my chest, as if there was still a part of me which hoped he would read it. I had never met him, I had never spoken to him, but after all of the articles in gossip magazines these past couple of weeks, I couldn't help but sympathize with him. I wanted his pain to go away, because he was capable of making beautiful things. 

I didn't tell anyone about the email, not a soul. I reread it several times, making sure I hadn't made a stupid spelling mistake that would set in stone the blonde stereotype I had been burdened with my whole life. In reality, I was about as far from a stereotype as anyone could be, distancing myself from all things ordinary, all things boring. I didn't want to be just like everyone else, I wanted to break apart the boundaries our society held carefully in place.

I found it hard being with friends sometimes, because I hadn't met someone who wholly understood me. People could nod, people could agree, but I could see in their eyes that they couldn't comprehend the thoughts running through my head. It wasn't that they didn't try, they just couldn't, because they weren't like me. 

This is why the email had felt nice to write, because for the first time in a long time I could be entirely myself, not fragments of the people my friends and my family wanted me to be. Whether Christopher Ainsworth received the message or not, no-one who saw it would know who I was, would be able to judge me for the things I have done. Writing the email felt like a clean slate, because it felt like meeting somebody for the first time. I could say whatever I wanted, and no-one from my everyday life could read it and tell me I was wrong.