Being a Barrymore didn’t help me, other than giving me a great sense of pride and a strange spiritual sense that I felt OK about having the passion to act. It made sense because my whole family had done it and it helped rationalise it for me.
I’m not a very organized person for being uber work-obsessed. I struggle to keep it all organized because everything can become important and, when you have so many spinning plates, they sometimes can cancel each other out because you lose track of everything.
I don’t even have voice mail or answering machines anymore. I hate the phone, and I don’t want to call anybody back. If I go to hell, it will be a small closet with a telephone in it, and I will be doomed and destined for eternity to return phone calls.
I’m very sensitive to the English language. I studied the dictionary obsessively when I was a kid and collect old dictionaries. Words, I think, are very powerful and they convey an intention.
I mean, I come from a hippie mentality where I just think to know someone, you need to look into their eyes. Eyes are so important. Until they start melon-balling eyes out, I won’t be able to get to know someone another way.
Sometimes you come to a point where there’s nothing more you can do. You love and respect each other, but it’s not working. So you amicably decide to part. I don’t know what the future holds: a lot of people get back together after they break up.
I’d definitely be the kind of parent who enabled my child’s dreams. I’d just watch and nurture and guide them. I have the blueprints of what not to do… I think I’d be a good parent, actually.
