ACT 3. Before the Bonfire Was Lit: The Millionaire, The Brand Guy, and the Heiress
Three voices. One manuscript. And the hardest question in storytelling: “Why should anyone care?”
The following is a meta-analysis of Welcome to the Mllionaire’s Campfire by the writers to unpack its creative process and offer a few clues to its deeper secrets.
New here? Read ACT 1 before continuing.
Davos wasn’t even an ember in the flame, but the spark had been lit. The village had begun to gather.
The writers’ room was dim, with pages of drafts strewn across the table and a candle flickering gently at the center like a miniature campfire. Wyoming sat with his legs folded on the sofa, a marked-up manuscript in hand. Brand Storries paced the floor with focused intensity. Across from them, May Dove Munnie—the poised, polished, and effortlessly composed family office maverick—sat with her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, watching them both with the bemused curiosity of someone who had grown up surrounded by far more opulence and far less meaning.
The conversation that follows is a behind-the-scenes eavesdrop—available exclusively to Paid Members.
Wyoming began softly, reading aloud. “This isn’t a story about wealth. It’s about what we forgot to build with it…”
Brand interrupted him almost instantly. “Wait—stop. That’s your opening line?”
Wyoming nodded. “Yeah.”
“It’s poetic,” May Dove said gently, “but it assumes the reader already agrees with you. Most of the people you’re trying to reach—especially the ones like me—don’t even know they forgot something.”
“That’s the point,” Wyoming replied. “The forgetting is part of the journey. And so is the remembering.”
Brand crossed his arms. “But you only get one shot. If I’m some Aspen tech founder scrolling at 10 p.m., I need a reason to care before I even click. You’ve got to set the stage before you light the fire.”
Wyoming tilted his head. “So what—you want a welcome mat before the curtain rises?”
May Dove leaned forward slightly. “I think what Brand’s saying, in his way, is that this reads like an invitation to a conversation that’s already in progress. That’s fine if you’re on the inside. But for the reader who’s standing at the edge of the metaphorical woods, they need to know what kind of fire they’re walking toward. You’re offering something sacred here—but it’s wrapped in satire, mystery, cleverness. All of which I adore, by the way. But if you want to speak to the wound underneath all that wealth, you have to make the medicine feel safe.”
Wyoming looked from one to the other. “We literally say it’s a true story presented as fiction.”
Brand laughed. “So did War of the Worlds. People still panicked.”
May Dove smiled. “When I first joined this journey, I wasn’t looking for a story. I was looking for relief. I needed a way to breathe again inside the gold-plated cage I was raised in. And I needed someone to ask the questions that no one in our world ever dared to ask—at least not out loud.”
Wyoming exhaled slowly, the air settling with realization. “Okay. Warmth. Invitation. Context. Permission.”
“And clarity,” Brand said. “Just enough clarity.”
“Just enough,” May Dove echoed, “to open the door—before you burn down the house. Not what they need,” she said. “What they’ll recognize. Try something like: ‘Welcome to the Millionaires Campfire. Not a story about wealth—but a reckoning with what we never learned to do with it.’ That line doesn’t threaten. It reveals. And it makes room for the reader to see themselves in it.”
Brand clapped his hands once. “Clean. Human. That line could carry an entire ad campaign.”
“I’ll take it,” Wyoming said, jotting it down. “But what about the tone? Too ironic?”
“Let me be blunt,” Brand said. “You’re speaking to people who’ve been burned by wealth and to those still basking in it. The satire is sharp—and brilliant—but it might cut the wrong way. You’ve got to let both groups feel like they belong at the fire.”
“And you can’t assume people want to laugh at themselves in chapter one,” May Dove added. “Many are still grieving—quietly. You can’t make them feel foolish for what they once believed. They need to feel held before they feel seen.”
“So,” Wyoming said, “we earn the laugh.”
May Dove nodded. “You earn the laugh. Invite the tears. And if they trust you—open the door to transformation.”
Brand turned to the manuscript. “That line about trademarking Sequoia Capital and walking in with a manuscript instead of a pitch—that’s your opener for an ad. That’s the one that gets shared at dinner parties in Jackson Hole.”
“And pair it with this,” May Dove added, her voice soft but deliberate: ‘What do you do after you’ve won the game of capitalism? Come home.’ That’s the kind of line that stops a millionaire in their tracks. Not because it shocks them. But because it names the ache they didn’t know had a name.”
Wyoming exhaled deeply, the air heavy with the weight of realization. “Okay. Warmth. Invitation. Context. Permission.”
“And clarity,” Brand said. “Just a touch of clarity.”
“Just enough,” May Dove echoed, “to open the door—before you burn down the house.”
Some characters appear in other Substacks too—like Lewis Blues from The Happy Studio, a partner in the world of Songa at 🎙️ thehappystudio.org
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