A submittal I prepared in February this year, for a new tower before the Village of Nehawka, Nebraska, runs as a checklist mirroring the village’s own application instructions and its tower ordinance clause by clause. Every requirement the ordinance names has a row. Every row names the document that satisfies it and its status.
The useful part is the rows that do not simply say provided. The village’s instructions call for an ANSI/TIA inspection report. This was a new tower, so there is no existing structure to inspect, and the row says exactly that: structural compliance is carried by the certified structural analysis and the sealed erection documents instead, with a one-page memo offered to explain why. Another row records that the propagation datasheet does not include the exposure calculations, and recommends adding a short compliance statement rather than leaving the reviewer to find the hole.
Those are gaps in my own filing, written down by me, in the document I am handing to the people deciding. A reviewer who finds a hole you did not mention starts wondering what else is missing. A reviewer who finds you already named it, and proposed the fix, is reading a different application.
The narratives are written to the findings. Purpose, need, screening, standards, in the order the body has to work through them, with the alternatives analysis and the tower inventory attached because the ordinance requires the applicant to prove no existing structure will serve. When a variance is being requested the narrative says so plainly and gives the reason, rather than hoping the dimension is not checked.
This is what “the homework is the whole job” means in practice. By the hearing, the argument is already on paper, indexed to the code section it answers.