You are seated at your cramped desk, eyes half-closed against the glare, coffee gone cold two hours ago. You have an idea. Not just any idea. A story that thrives in spite of itself.

You tell yourself it’s just a concept—nothing more—but the hook is already in. Maybe it’s about the people who stay when everyone else leaves. Or the way the earth shakes when the heavy vehicles roll through.

So you start looking around. Reading scraps of local news, half-abandoned blogs, a government report or two—most of it redacted. You call someone who knows someone. You talk to people who tell you nothing and everything at the same time. And then you realise: this is a documentary. It has to be.

You make a deck. Nothing fancy—just enough to sell the story to yourself before you try it on anyone else. A few grainy images pulled from online, maybe a quote from some local you found in the archives. You imagine the voiceover, even the first few shots, the pacing, the camera moving through heat-hazed streets. You can almost hear the hum of the generator you might be sleeping next to when you’re out there.

Then comes the money problem. The eternal problem. You pitch it to small grants, big grants, friends with a suspicious tolerance for risk. You make your case: this story matters, it’s urgent, and no one else is telling it. Few bite. Hardly anyone. Eventually, though, long after you thought you’d given up—well after your despondency had settled into realism—someone does. Or maybe they just nibble, but it’s enough to get you........

© CounterPunch