In a way, no matter whatever’s happened to me, I’ve always been alone. And I sense that Katie knows that feeling. It’s the solitude of the genuine individual. Sometimes she becomes very quiet. And I know that that quiet flows from a tremendous capacity for empathy. That she mourns the sadness of the world, of the ultimately impossible chasms between all of us.

She is a slim, delicate beauty. She is so wonderful to hold in my arms. I guess I love her because she is honest. I know that every gesture she makes means what it is supposed to mean. Who does that? No one.

We were talking about life and she said, “Life is not the big things. It is all the little things you don’t notice.” As I write this she is in the next room napping on the couch. I just put a blanket on her. I feel so protective of her and that’s good.

March 10, 1979

Someday I will look back at this day and I will realize that it was the best day of my life. I’m in love with Katie, I have money in my pocket, I’m writing the best stuff I’ve ever written, my whole future is in front of me. The sun is shining, the birds are singing outside my window and I’m sober. How great is that? She leaves tomorrow and I will miss her so much.

March 12, 1979

My new editor/publisher, Leon, copped tickets to a Broadway play because he’s already signed a book deal with the author, Tom Stoppard. I’m not really big on attending theater, but Leon promised we would get backstage and I’m always up for checking things out. Plus Tom Stoppard must be a cool guy.

The play was all right. About African politics. I wasn’t playing complete attention, because I was distracted by the actress playing the young wife.

Anyway, after the show Leon and I went backstage. Through all these doors and stairwells, to the green room where Stoppard was meeting his director. So we’re hanging out with Tom Stoppard, a nice man, a little distracted because I guess the New York previews weren’t going as well as the London shows went, and we’re talking about the book he’s going to write for Leon and then the actress playing the young wife, Elizabeth Joel, pops her head in, to say good night to Tom, she was going back to her apartment, had to rest her voice, etc. etc.

We all got introduced and the next thing I know I was shaking Ms. Joel’s hand and then the most amazing thing happened. She said, “You’re not the Richard Morris, are you?” I almost did one of those Marx Brothers routines and looked behind me to see who she was talking to.

Incredibly, this beautiful actress, Elizabeth Joel, has read my stories. And Elizabeth Joel loves my stories. She’s a writer herself. I told her I thought her acting was terrific and if her stories were halfway as good as her performance, then she should write a book, BLAH-BLAH-BLAH.