Hey, friend. It’s been far too long since I’ve tapped out a letter to you. Truth be told, it’s been far too long since I’ve done much typing or writing or creating of any kind. Apologies. I’ve been somewhat preoccupied as of late. With what, you ask? Darkness, sadness, grief, loss, more loss, and trying desperately to remember what the hell I’m supposed to be doing in this life.
You know, everyday musings of an existential nature. Nothing big.
As an internal processor, thoughts of that nature take up a lot of real estate in my funny little brain. Also, they’re quite loud. And stubbornly persistent. They’ve been terribly successful at cultivating a crap ton of doubt that has kept me from putting my fingers on the keyboard.
To make things worse, my genius has had a helluva time finding my new writing cave, probably because I haven’t given him the new top secret location. The reason? I really dislike the new digs and don’t want him to see me wallowing in self-pity on a pile of disheveled disguises tossed on the floor. Sure, he’s seen me at my worst, but the writing cave isn’t what it’s supposed to be, what I want it to be, what I need it to be. It’s just not me. I fear he’ll take one look at it and bolt, never to be seen again.
I know what you’re thinking – that perhaps my genius, with his smooth British accent and snarky sense of humor, is just what the writing cave needs to get the fingers tapping again, that maybe he could distract me from the not-me-ness of it all long enough to get me to open my manuscript and resume editing. Honestly, I could probably use some snarktastic company. And, if on his way here he happened to accidentally divulge the location of the writing cave to a certain classy British actor (naming no names), well, I don’t think I’d mind that, either.
Crazy, I know. I’m not myself right now. Obviously.
Many thanks, though, for not telling me that I’ll get used to things, that I should just give it time, that it will all get better. Lovely sentiments and advice, no doubt. But they’re all about the future, which, at the moment, is freaking me out. Here and now is where I am, where I need to be. One inhalation, one exhalation. One word, one sentence, one awkwardly crafted, ridiculous letter sent out into the ether for no other purpose than I felt like writing it.
One part of the future I’m not freaked out about is getting to see you in all of the movies you’ve been so busy working on over the last year. The Fifth Estate. Twelve Years a Slave. August: Osage County. The Hobbit. And now you tell me you’re set to star in The Lost City of Z as the 1920’s British explorer Percy Fawcett, the guy whose story was the inspiration for the Indiana Jones movies, some of the most awesome movies of all times?
You. Indiana Jones. Exploration. The 1920’s.
Excuse me while I go collect what’s left of my exploded mind. Because that’s what happens when Greatness meets Brilliance at the crossroads of Spectacular and Amazing.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.
Or inspire me.
Well played, friend. Well played.
*Editor’s note: The views, ideas, and opinions expressed in the Letters from Benedict series are works of fiction and did not come from the actor himself. Obviously. This series is just my ridiculous way of expressing adoration for Mr. Cumberbatch and his work and is not intended to be taken at face value or seen as a true collaborative writing endeavor with him.