Her prose even splits the difference between the novel and the screenplay. Read the opening paragraph of Dear Money (I also devoured L’America): The story begins, of course, with real estate. The heady days of 2003. Pond Point, the old Victorian cottage tied together, it seemed, with twine, standing as it does before the dunes with a swath of sea grass like a moat, sweet pea shoots, their blue flowers dancing in a late afternoon breeze blowing offshore. The beach. Miles of sand, flanked by rivers, one large, one small, spilling into the Atlantic. Little islands floating just offshore, connected at low tide by sandbars that reach to them like arms.