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FORWARD

By Chris Pratt

When I was asked to write the forward for Unqualified, Anna’s memoir, I immediately said yes without even thinking about it. And boy did a lot happen between then and now.

So much.

Like … soooo much.

So. Allow me to start by asking some questions:

First and foremost: What is a forward? Like, you know? What is it? Is a forward an anecdote? Like that time Anna and I went to the Beverly Hills library and I told her it was the first time I’d ever been in a library and then she looked at me like I must be joking? And I pretended I was joking? And boy did we laugh. But I wasn’t joking? Is that a forward?

I don’t really read books all that much. I mean, I know how to read, as in sounding out words and phrases, sentences, and the like. I can spell, too! I’ll stop now. I feel like I’m bragging. But let’s just say books aren’t really my specialty. Per se.

I do read a lot of screenplays.

May I paint you a forward in screenplay format?

Fade in.

Int. Bedroom. Night. Chris Pratt (early twenties, roguishly handsome) stares blankly at his phone. He blinks a couple of times.

Chris:	Siri. How do you write a forward?
Siri:	Searching: How to go right and forward.
Chris:	NO, STUPID! Siri. What is the definition of forward?
Siri:	Searching: What is the definition of forewarn?
Chris:	NO! Siri! Give me FORWARD definition.
Siri:	Searching: Give me forearm definition.
Chris:	Umm … Yeah. Show me that.

Distracted, Chris begins watching forearm workout videos for several hours.

Fade out.

Credits roll.

Thunderous applause. Oscar nom Best Short Film. #blessed

Okay … Back to it.

Crickets.

Stares at phone.

Literally googles the word forward.

Wow … Okay. So … it’s actually spelled FOREWORD. With an O and an E. Who knew? Siri did. Of course. We’ve been through a lot, she and I.

Anyhow, lesson learned. Now, let’s move FOREWORD and discuss someone else with whom I’ve been through a lot.

My Foreword

By Chris Pratt

Anna is an important part of my life and she always will be. She asked me to write this foreword. And I’m doing so because I love and respect her and told her I would.

She and I have a striking number of similarities.

We were both raised in Washington State, just twenty minutes from each other. (Coincidentally, we didn’t meet until working together in LA.) I played football on her high school field, a fact I’ve pointed out every single time we’ve driven past that school in ten years, to which, every time, she reacts with a gracious amount of faux wonder, kind sweetheart. We’re both actors who made it in Hollywood, being cast as intelligently played idiots: me, Andy Dwyer; her, Cindy Campbell. We both have scars on our left hands, the results of drunken accidents that left us with nerve damage. We each had dead-bug collections before meeting. And even though they’re not the same, Linda Goodman, author of Love Signs, claims our astrological signs are the most compatible with each other.

But there are a few differences as well. For one: Anna is a voracious information collector. She reads, hears, watches, and retains an inordinate amount of stories—from podcasts and NPR pieces to New Yorker articles. She’ll often pore over the newspaper while simultaneously watching a TV show and blow drying her hair. She reads the big five: The New York Times, LA Times, The Seattle Times, The New Yorker, and The Economist. Whereas I read “The Big 5” sporting goods ads, looking for good deals on guns and Rollerblades.

Anna is kind, possibly to a fault. I’m proud to say we each approach most human interactions with politeness, and patience when required. We’re both well-known actors, and it’s worth mentioning—fame can be a pain in the butt. But we’re thick-skinned. And despite what it may seem, we’ll be just fine regardless of what you think of us. She’s been in the spotlight longer than me yet continues to be the voice of reason in uncomfortable situations regarding our lack of anonymity. When approached by fans and photographers, she smiles and shows kindness. As do I, although my annoyance and bubbling anger with paparazzi tend to be more thinly veiled.

Anna is graceful with strangers and fans because she is actually wildly interested in every person she meets. She asks great questions. She communes with anybody and makes an instant connection with each person she meets, which lasts … a VERY SHORT TIME. Like a “goldfish, three seconds, turn around and you’re strangers” kind of way? Almost like Dory from Finding Nemo? Or the movie Memento? And that person, that nameless, forgotten person, knowing full well the moment is over, still somehow walks away feeling charmed and deeper in love than before. That’s just how intoxicating she is.

Being TV and film stars, we live a circus lifestyle, pulled this way and that by jobs, strangers, lives on the road, all in service of the crowd. I see it as a calling in terms of the platform I’ve been given and a job that keeps me from breaking my back doing construction. For Anna, acting is a passion. She simply loves it. More than maybe anyone I know. There are home videos of her playing made-up characters from as early as eight years old. She started younger than that and really hasn’t stopped since. On set and off she is constantly slipping into character, often her go-to clown: the awful party girl you may have seen in Just Friends (perhaps the greatest supporting role in a comedy by anyone ever—no hyperbole), as well as many more with our son. She lives to entertain.

And finally, more than anything, Anna deserves this book. I can promise you it will be a great and interesting read. A face-first dive into the mind and person that I spent one amazing decade with, and will, for the rest of my life, amicably coparent a human. She is the amazing, effervescent, former short girl, theater nerd, camp counselor, crossing guard, headgear-wearing, feistmeister, character-playing Anna Kay Faris, the “I was such a late bloomer I had to actually learn social skills to survive and developed wit to get by and then turned hot later” fan of Real Housewives, good times, extravagance, prudence, herself, her family, podcasts, books, white guilt, neurosis, great foods, repeated deep musical moments, mornings with the newspaper, small bites, feminism, and more.

And in all the years we were together, I don’t think I smelled her farts once. They’re probably not too bad.

Enjoy.