i’m still waiting for the call from her producers
Whenever I start a big new writing project, I need inspiration. Something to focus on during those long days and nights when I am giving everything I have to try to create something that will hopefully affect people on some level.
One of the most motivating things in the world, for me, is showing off for a pretty girl.
Some people will tell you that the challenge alone motivates them. But, frankly, I already assume I can do anything anyway.
Tore your ACL? Give me a pocket knife, wikipedia, a quart of whiskey and a stick for you to bite on and I’ll fix your wagon.
I also think I can fix wagons.
When I was writing screenplays I would often let myself think ahead to my date for the Oscars. (Except, of course, for the 5 years when I was gallivanting with this one.) Even though I am morally opposed to awards for art, I was thinking about what hot friend would be willing to wear the hottest dress.
Then I was doubly excited when I realized hot girl + hot dress would also be needed for the premiere.
Clearly I’ve always written for the right reasons.
When I started my novella, I didn’t have so much as a crush. (Sad, right?) But I had a story I NEEDED to tell, so I amused myself on the rough days by daydreaming a little.
One of my favourites was something I like to call…
“My first appearance on Oprah.”
I was about 14 pages into my novella when I was absolutely certain that Oprah would make it part of her book club dealie.
I mean… Come on.
I could picture it all.
I’d walk out on stage. I’d wave to the ladies in the audience.
I’d hug Oprah.
Then I’d say, “OK. Get off. That’s enough for you.”
She’d gesture to the couch.
I’d motion for the audience to cease the standing ovation.
People would throw their underwear to me.
I’d take a seat. And, because I’m me, I’d be all recline-y and wishing for a coffee table to put my feet up on.
Oprah: I’m so glad you’re here today.
Peter: I bet.
Oprah: And that you opted to wear your trademark baseball cap.
Peter: I debated it. But then asked myself…
Oprah: What would Peter DeWolf do?
Oprah: So why did you become a writer?
Peter: Naivete, ego and a general distaste for manual labour.
Oprah: When I was doing research on you, I read that you once said that telling people you’re a writer in your town would garner about the same reaction as would telling people you sodomize goats.
Peter: Sounds like something I would say. And awwwwww. You researched me.
Oprah: Well my minions did it and then handed me a single page of notes. In large font.
Oprah: I’m Oprah, bitch
Peter: Fair point
We’d chit chat a bit. Then take a break.
Anne Hathaway was an earlier guest, and she’d come out to talk to me.
Anne Hathaway: Hi. I loved your novella.
Peter: Thanks! I love… you.
Anne Hathaway: You’re very sweet.
Peter: That’s true.
Anne Hathaway: How would you feel about working with me to write a short screenplay for me to direct and star in?
Peter: I’d feel pretty yay! about that.
Anne Hathaway: I’ll call you.
Peter: (mumbling) Did I mention that I write naked?
Anne Hathaway: What?
Peter: Oh, nothing.
In the next segment, Martha Stewart and I would have a cook-off.
Trouble would begin when I tell her that sweet potato fries don’t deserve to be called fries.
Moments later, security would be separating us. She’d be swinging a rolling pin at me while I yell, “Your croquembouche is sub par! SUB. PAR.”
Then the daydream would kind of fall apart and I’d go make some pancakes.
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