THE COACHELLA REVIEW — Voice to Books: Voice to Scripts /February 8, 2026

Written for The Coachella Review

Voice to Books, meet Voice to Scripts! For this edition we decided to look closely at screenplays as literary documents possessing their own styles, shapes and textures. What kinds of literary choices can screenwriters make to elevate the impact of their stories? What role do craft elements like structure and word choice play in creating uniquely memorable characters and emotionally resonant moments? The screenplays covered in this article employ a wide range of tools; examples include selectively unhinged dialogue, the restraint of silence, strategically deployed voiceover, intentional scene pacing, visual repetition, escalation, and surprising interjections of sound. Each of these scripts develops a lexicon of its own. Screenwriters here go beyond sharing their stories, teaching their audiences how to read them.

THE COACHELLA REVIEW — Voice to Books: Good Trouble /June 1, 2025

Written for The Coachella Review

Though for many of us these times feel unprecedented, the need to make “good trouble” is timeless. The term, coined by civil rights icon and United States Representative John Lewis, points to taking necessary actions of resistance against systems of oppression in service to our shared humanity and collective liberation.

These works, ranging in genre from fantasy to YA fiction to historical nonfiction, show that good trouble can take countless shapes, often falling outside the norm of our surface-level perceptions. Here, we see tiny, intimate moments of individual decision-making but also the power of larger movements fighting against empires and ruling governments. Humor, fun and cultural celebration are contrasted with hard work and its attendant emotional costs. Themes of community, relationships and collaboration abound. Heroes look all kinds of ways. We meet, among many others, Native Lipan Apache modern-day high-schooler Grace, Charlie and Sidney, a biracial father-daughter duo questing in a post-white society, visionary 17th century mystic Sor María de Ágreda, and Arthur, a father-phoenix protecting his brood of magical children. The threads of good trouble are sewn between lessons and traditions from the past, implications for the present and possibilities for the future. Perhaps more than any other defining feature, the need for bold imagination and the space to dream infuse all of these works.

FILMMAKER MAGAZINE — On Three Rainy Weeks Filming on Oregon’s Snowy Mt. Hood /March 25, 2019

Written for Filmmaker Magazine

In 2014 I shot a documentary in roughly three weeks. It took place exclusively in the small town of Government Camp, OR, the closest feeder village to the Mt. Hood ski resorts of Timberline, Mt Hood Meadows and Skibowl. I had cast 19-year old Sadie Ford as the lead character. She responded to a flyer I posted at the Govy Market searching for someone who ticked off my boxes: Sadie was a passionate snowboarder (not a pro), planning to live on the mountain full-time for the winter season, and was willing to let me follow her around with a camera. She had saved money from working as a snowboard instructor, spent her days riding at one of the resorts or hiking in the backcountry, and had been sleeping most nights under a tarp in the woods.

She moved the location of her campsite every now and then; I’m not sure whether this was out of boredom, as an experiment to find the best spot, or to keep Forest Service officials off her trail, as it were.

The plan was to film with Sadie as much possible during the three week window I had arranged to take off from my day job. My goal was to portray a character I resonated with strongly, and yet hadn’t ever seen onscreen, with the layered complexity that my own experience as a female snowboarder deserved. I wanted to use her perspective to reflect the posturing, bravado, camaraderie and devotion of the snowboarding culture at the height of the winter season. The film would be equally a celebration and a critique, equally highlighting Sadie’s inner experience and outer world.

We planned to shoot from late February through mid-March on Mt. Hood, expecting the same snowy forested wonderland I had experienced countless times before—the classic winter landscape that had inspired me as a teen and kept me awe-struck, riding and and spending time in the woods well into my thirties.

I was prepared to snowboard, but not super prepared to film in the snow. We maybe purchased some handwarmers. We had a warm condo to sleep in. Our DP, Jerred North, had recently shot a teen snowboard-camp reality show and so was comfortable in the snow and cold, and was an able skier. But for unexplicable reasons he insisted on wearing jeans during our entire shoot. Like me, our producer Janique Robillard was an experienced snowboarder. She and I basically dressed as we would for a day of riding on the mountain. Our rotating cast of ACs had to be competent skier/snowboarders as well.

We showed up on a classic Pacific Northwest gloomy grey day. Likely the air was thick with mist and moisture. We waited for it to snow. It did not. The landscape became less and less white as the snow melted away, revealing brown ground and evermore grey skies. All told we got one good snow dump during the three weeks of filming. It was awful. It was not the landscape of my dreams, or anyone’s dreams. It rained, a lot. It was too warm. The town felt empty and dead—locals tried to make the best of the crummy weather, and businesses closed their doors for days. Tourists stayed far away. Climate change is very, very real, and it was hardcore messing up the fundamental bedrock of our movie. (This is where I shoutout Protect Our Winters, an amazing organization led by the outdoors sports community working to stop climate change).

We filmed anyway. Normal cold-weather challenges like making sure the camera batteries didn’t freeze up were less of an issue, though protecting the camera from moisture seeping in was a constant concern. It was often wrapped up in plastic. What we needed was a giant umbrella, but there was nothing even close to that available for purchase in town. Janique and I had to make a special trip offsite to get one. After many fruitless stops at various outdoor sports stores, finally we scavenged an umbrella from a local golf resort about 15 miles down the mountain—beware the sound of water dropping onto an umbrella creeping into your sound mix! The umbrella was priceless to our shoot.

There was enough snow on the ground, however, to make getting to Sadie’s campsite a formidable challenge. She was staying in the woods about half a mile up a snow-covered mountain. Before leading us there on the first day, she told us we’d need snowshoes. I initially stubbornly ignored this advice, thinking I had neither the time, the budget, or the need. We were wearing regular snow boots, and planning to hand-carry all of our gear, including the heavy Red Epic camera and a very heavy, cumbersome Sachtler tripod. That first day, each step up the mountain was a sinking-into-snow, uphill nightmare, took forever, and required a ton of physical exertion. While Sadie flew up the mountain wearing snowshoes, Jerred and I lagged far behind, exhausted, unbalanced, and worried about dropping/ruining expensive equipment. By the time we reached her campsite spot, it was clear that this travel scenario could not repeat itself. We rented crappy snowshoes from the local mountain adventure store for the next two weeks (they gave us an absurdly great deal), and a long coffin-shaped sled with a looped rope attached to it, meant for parents to haul their children behind them while cross-country skiing. From then on, we snowshoed up the mountain each time. I dragged the sled, which carried the heavy tripod in it, sometimes the camera too. Later we tried to use the sled as some kind of dolly: I’d haul it like a sleddog with Jerred laying down inside, holding the camera. In the end this gave us one usable tracking shot of Sadie’s feet snowshoeing through the snow. Totally worth it.

We had to embrace the rain. It was already late in the season, so there was no sense in waiting for better/snowier weather to arrive (which of course it totally did the moment we left), and due to crew availability there was no flexibility to reschedule the shoot dates anyway. I couldn’t bear to wait for another winter. As any snowboarder would be, Sadie was disappointed about the lack of snowfall, but tried to make the best of it. When the snow did finally arrive, she vanished into its jowls in a flash and became harder to keep track of. Her patience for our camera setups understandably thinned. But with the “free” time afforded by all the rain, we had plenty of opportunity to collaborate and work together. We got a lot more time to film the details of her lifestyle and all of her activities that weren’t snowboarding, which in the end made for a more interesting film and a more complicated character study. The weather became part of the narrative, but it also shaped the texture of our time together.

Snow has a unique ability to offer what we need—whether a shift in perception, a magical sense of wonder, or an invitation to fun and perhaps adventure. For some of us, we feel most ourselves in this container. Where there is snow, there is a clear visual indicator that our inner world is in a state of flux. We’re changing; we’re growing.

With less snow than anticipated, there was a kind of loss that Sadie and I both experienced. For Sadie this loss seemed to be echoed in the unexpected death of a family member during our time filming. But it allowed her contemplative, searching nature to shine through all the clearer. Snow, like life, is not a guarantee. For me, the loss of snow was reflected in an unexpected feeling of grief I experienced on the shoot. I had recently become a new mother, and my identity was shifting too—my days as a carefree snowboarder like Sadie were officially behind me, and I was mourning them. It kind of made sense. It’s funny how a change in the environment can be felt so deeply in our bones. I think ultimately Woodsrider turned out exactly how it was meant to be. Both the process and the final product feel truthful to the human experience.

INTERNATIONAL DOCUMENTARY ASSOCIATION — My First Getting Real Conference: Heroes and Humans /October 31, 2018

Written for IDA / International Documentary Association

As a documentary filmmaker with one project in distribution, one in post and one in development, it felt like a perfect moment to attend IDA’s Getting Real 2018. Having more than one project to lean on, I was able to seek out industry wisdom from a variety of angles thanks to a professional development grant from the Regional Arts and Culture Council in Portland, OR, where I’ve lived since 2010.

I’ve been to film festivals before and admit that I enjoy looking at massive schedules, circling too many films, and trying to get to them all. What I always forget is that ideally one does this while simultaneously meeting and connecting with dozens of new people, partying with them at night, and getting very little sleep. Whether because this was a conference, and not a film festival, or because I didn’t have to shoulder the stress of showing a film, or because I’m just older and a parent now and can’t do the no-sleep thing, I did no major carousing at Getting Real. However, I did attend what felt like the right number of events.

Because I had been on an Internet-free residency during the pre-registration period, I was concerned that I wouldn’t get into any sessions. Conference Producer Cassidy Dimon told me that there would be standby lines for all and not to worry. She was right! I was pre-registered for very little, but I got into everything I wanted except for one event and one party.

I had to pinch myself a couple of times, thinking, “I can’t believe everyone here cares about docs like I do--that’s so cool!” Self-evident and naive of me, for sure, but worth noting that for many of us, the simple fact of gathering in a group of like-minded folks can feel incredibly validating. There were panels for filmmakers at every career stage--22-year-olds fresh out of film school, commercial producers making first-time features, emerging talents, mid-career pros, seasoned veterans and downright demigods in the field.

I attended with a small crew of Oregon filmmakers representing Oregon Doc Camp and this made a big difference in having “my people” to talk to when the swarm of networking strangers became too overwhelming. As someone interested in developing our regional doc community in the Pacific Northwest and also actively connecting this community with resources and talent on the coasts and abroad, I appreciated the “Regional Sustainability Models” session, although I didn’t have time to actually attend.  

Industry programmers, funders and broadcasters were also very much on the scene. I should have set up more meetings in advance with these folks, but it was easy enough to find them, as most on the industry side were participating in panels and available for chats afterwards. Daily lunches from the onsite food trucks was a nice touch, providing another opportunity for networking. The conference venues around Hollywood were surprisingly walkable; I’d never walked in Los Angeles so much in my life.

My first event was a roundtable talk with Megan Goldstein from Catapult Film Fund.  Immediately eight people were giving elevator pitches and it was go-time. What stuck with me from this session was the bravery of each filmmaker, and Megan’s advice: put together a solid team before submitting, and be able to explain from the outset a visual language for your film. My next roundtable was with Hussain Currimbhoy, a documentary programmer at Sundance Film Festival. While I went in rather intimidated, Hussain broke the ice by making it clear that he simply loved film. He didn’t ask us to pitch, but he gave a few broader tips about submission do’s and don’ts. After the roundtable we discussed my project in development, my unique position as someone returning home to Los Angeles, and the “landscape-and-trauma” genre that, upon Hussain’s naming it, gave me some clarity and confidence around my upcoming project.

Next up, a symposium called #DecolonizeDocs was divided into three panels—The Industry, The Filmmaker and The Audience. I caught the Industry slot, led by Brown Girls Doc Mafia Founder Iyabo Boyd. Among many vital takeaways, a big one for me was Iyabo’s encouragement to coordinate conversation about white privilege with other caucasian filmmakers, in an attempt to relieve people of color from the emotional labor of initiating change around equity, diversity and inclusion in our industry. True/Falseprogrammer Abby Sun basically brought the house down with enactable solutions to decolonizing the programming process. I can’t wait to see what someone with her vision will bring to an already-phenomenal festival.

Robert Greene’s panel, “Reenactment Reconsidered: Staged Realities and Nonfiction Fantasies” with Yance Ford, Sandi Tan and Kitty Green, was utterly enthralling. I couldn’t stop jotting down nuggets of wisdom from these filmmakers, and had more head-nodding moments in recognition of like-minded truth-telling, and “a-ha” moments in recognition of genius, than I could count.

I enjoyed the intimate and laid-back approach of Kartemquin Films’ Tim Horsburgh in breaking down Bing Liu’s Minding the Gap in a “Here’s What Really Happened” session. Along with producer Diane Quon, Bing and Tim guided the filmmaker-only audience from the film’s inception, through the rollercoaster period of production and funding, and ultimately to distribution, with a million little insights dropped along the way. As a snowboarder who made an arty boardsports doc myself, I was especially stoked to talk afterwards with Bing. I felt happy for his success in humanizing a board culture that often feels flattened and one-dimensional in its portrayal of youth.  

And then Jenni Olson made me cry. I encountered her essay film The Royal Road several years back and its impact on me continues to this day. I even dedicated my new short film to her.  I made it all the way through the riveting, heart-melting panel she led called “Creative Courage in Nonfiction Storytelling,” alongside Yance Ford (again coming with volumes of wisdom and sheer force of presence) and the spritely Jennie Livingston. I approached Jenni after the panel to let her know how much her work had changed my life, and unexpectedly the tears started flowing.  She gave me the warmest hug, and took my emotion as a huge compliment. I have never cried at meeting a hero before, but Getting Real got really real for me in that moment.

Post-Getting Real, I leapt straight into a shoot for my new film and then back home to a brand new teaching job. I left the conference inspired, and feeling more willing to go through the process that is right for each new film. Patience in playing the long game seems key. I still need to go through my business cards and notes, and follow up with certain folks. I still need to find a producer for my new film. I can’t wait to watch Sandi Tan’s Shirkers tonight on Netflix, and continue to find inspiration in my fellow makers. I wish every local region had a conference as well attended and well curated as this one, but until then, I’m grateful to have Getting Real just a two-hour plane ride away.