Windfall arrives in paperback on Tuesday, March 19! To celebrate, I’m hosting a Zoom gathering at 5 p.m. PT that day. You can ask me anything—including about my next project. Click on the big button below to register.
Hello friends!
As many of you know, I'm in the early stages of developing a documentary film and book project about monuments in the American West. (Working title for both: Monumental.) The project needs a great deal of my time and attention this month, and so I thought I'd share with you how I'm bringing it together, even as I'm in the thick of it.
One important mindset shift: I no longer say "I hope" to write a book and make a film. I say I'm doing them. I began discussing the project in this way about two months ago. Talking about Monumental as though it is already happening has helped me believe my own pitches, even as I sell my idea—and even myself, as its creator—to others.
And the project is happening! In fact, the documentary has picked up so much steam in recent weeks that I can barely keep up. Recently, it became necessary to bring on a production team. They sat me down and had me dump everything I knew in a massive spreadsheet. Believe me, you want to partner with people who know the value of a good spreadsheet and a shared Google Drive!
Among my tasks this month are applying for two major film-related grants and finishing up a draft of a book proposal. Plus, following along as the story of select monuments unfolds in the communities where I'm focusing my attention.
One of my biggest creative challenges has been identifying the story at the heart of both the film and book. I'm going to discuss the narrative in broad strokes, because the early stages of a project are tender and not yet ready for outside judgment. But also, I was a little rattled recently when someone told me that if I didn't make this as a film, they would!
No matter the medium, the best narratives begin with an unanswered question—and then attempt to answer it as the story unfolds. A film needs a tight central narrative. A nonfiction book can be more wide-ranging, but for it to be successful as a gripping, page-turning story, it requires a narrative engine as a propulsive force, beginning on page 1.
I knew I needed to identify the narrative that would make this project work—my literary agent said as much in our early conversations about this project. In February, I went to a documentary camp to help incubate my idea and to elicit feedback, and then attended two film festivals. All the while, my brain was working in the background.
This past week, I could tell that the story at the heart of my project was bubbling just below the surface, about to break through. We sometimes believe that ideas emerge from the ether, as some sort of divine inspiration. And maybe they do, to a degree. But the reality is that even if they begin in the ephemeral, they build in our brains, layer by layer. It takes deep concentration and hard work and patience to conjure them into being.
There's a scene from the television show Mad Men that captures this process perfectly. In the scene, Peggy Olson is updating Don Draper about how she'd sell a product that’s billed by its maker as a weight loss aid, but is actually a vibrator. It's the mid-1960s, so she's shy about explaining what the product does—but she has done her research. When she finally says out loud that it vibrates, he understands immediately. "We now have a benefit. Now we just have to figure out how to put it into words."
And then, Don tells Peggy his secret for making an idea come to life, one that I can't help but believe is directly from the show's creator, Matthew Weiner, and others on the Mad Men writing team: "Just think about it. Deeply. Then...forget it. And an idea will jump up in your face."
How did I encourage my idea to jump up in my face? I did a lot of research and interviews and took long drives to see monuments that gave me space to think about it deeply. I went to the film festivals and I watched how other people put their ideas on screen. I read more, researched more, watched and listened more. I interviewed people about it, I observed as things happened. I updated my project journal weekly. I made a pitch deck, and then a two-page summary. Then, I left it alone for a bit until it started to vibrate.
Last week, while scribbling in my notebook—a near-daily morning habit—I began to see the story's shape as a diagram. My need to get the shape down on a piece of paper was almost compulsive. I drew three parallel lines on the page containing the main storylines. And then I drew a squiggly line weaving the three together. It looks something like this:
A few days later, I got tactile again. I began populating my lines with moments and characters. I got down on the floor, writing on magic markers in different colors on copier paper, filling the grid and interweaving the main storylines with a theme. I showed it to one of the film producers who is working with me on the project, and watched the light go off in her eyes as she saw how the story would come together. I laid the pages out on the floor again when I talked to a potential director of photography, showing him how my paper schematic would end up as a film. He understood it, too.
It now looks something like this:
A couple of caveats: This is not the only way to tell a story, and a plot isn't always necessary. And in fact, I love stories that meander or don't answer the question they originally asked or that just show us a slice of life. Such stories can be especially delightful on film. But stories without narrative are more difficult to pull off in a book, particularly if you want to sell it to a commercial publisher and expect people to buy it, borrow it and read it. Humans love a story with a beginning, middle and end.
I also write with great humility about the evolution of an idea, because no story turns out exactly how you think it will. Even with a plan, things change and people and events surprise you. I can't foretell the outcome of the narrative lines I drew down the page, in those three columns. But I know they will lead somewhere interesting and potentially delightful, and I'm willing to follow wherever they go. The story will reveal itself even more as it is written. Having a plan means you can deviate from it.
Finally, some aspects of this project are taking longer than I’d hoped—and yet it is proceeding at exactly the right pace for what it is. This is one of the hardest things to understand about the early stages of a project, especially when you're not getting paid for the work. (And I am not getting paid right now, not yet.)
But eventually, it will all come together.
Yours,
Erika
THE NEWS
All the links…
Did scientists scrap the whole idea of the Anthropocene? Maybe? Maybe not? (So confusing.)
Can a too-tight sports bra 1) restrict breathing, and 2) affect athletic performance? A study says yes, but it was conducted with small-chested, elite athletes only.
Divorce memoirs are hot right now.
A sweet antidote to all the divorce self-righteousness, by a military wife and pacifist.
Did you know that Washington D.C. has a monument to homeopathy?
A bleak walk through Phoenix reveals sad truths about walkable cities. I have hit my budgetary limit on paid Substack subscriptions, but might have to bust it to subscribe to this one by
about walking! (Brought to my attention by one of my favorite newsletters, The Morning News.)The Windfall Dispatch 100% endorses lying on the floor. And this piece made me wonder: Should I start teaching restorative yoga again?
Bravo!
I'm in Moab and saw your book at the local bookstore, so I told the staff person to read it and consider it for a staff pick.
Random recommendation: If you get to Santa Fe, check out the big Journey's End public sculpture showing pioneers traveling the Santa Fe Trail. It's pretty impressive and iconic. I sense there's an interesting story behind it.
Love the story development visuals. Yesterday I was going through the latest draft of a piece I’ve been editing. Despite several rounds of revision, it still felt off. I’ve learned that it can help me to “sketch” a story. Almost as soon as I set a pen and paper next to my laptop, before I’d even written or drawn anything, I realized I’d been overlooking a crucial gap in the piece. It was if just touching the pen and paper shifted my brain into a different perspective.