A couple of weeks ago, I got an e-mail from Hope. Our exchange went a little something like this*:
Hope: I have a proposal for you…
Peter: Oh realllllllllllllllllllllly? Colour me intrigued.
Hope: Oh, it’s nothing like that.
Peter: Oh. Well, colour me less intrigued. But, you know, sort of listening.
Hope: We should do THIS.
(Peter follows link.)
Peter: Are you kidding me? You think that art can be forced to happen? That you can somehow distill a great work into some kind of McHappy Meal-sized portions? This is a slap in the face to all of the men and women who have lived and died with their writing. Who have poured over every single word. Who have anguished over whether or not they have told their stories to the best of their ability. Our forefathers fought for our freedom and for our right to express ourselves openly. That this “event” exists is an absolute outrage! I simple cannot believe that you would even broach this topic with me. For shame, Hope. For shame.
Hope: Do you want to do it?
Peter: Sure. Fuck it. Sounds like fun.
And so it began…
30 days. 100 screenplay pages.
Rock and roll.
I’ve decided that my screenplay will be based on this.
And now I should actually do some writing.[*Please note, this may not be at all how it went down. But, it really was her idea.]