From piles of rubbish, remarkable things can be created. Entire worlds are imagined. Stories are written. Characters live and breathe in places that began as nothing more than scattered ideas and discarded fragments.

Over the past month I’ve been doing something similar on a much smaller scale.

A stack of weathered old decking boards full of screw holes and years of use, has slowly been turned into the desk where those worlds and stories will be written. Piece by piece the timber was cut down, layered, glued, and shaped into something new.

This post is a small look at that process: how a pile of old boards became the table where the next stories will begin.

Two early-’90s songs, telling the same story in different keys.

Hazard brings the suspicion; Where the Wild Roses Grow brings the aftermath. Together, they suggest a place where innocence doesn’t disappear — it drifts, and the town decides who it belongs to next.

Hazardous was my first screenplay. Written as an opening scene, it withholds answers on purpose. The story isn’t about who did it — it’s about how quickly we decide.

What do you get when a science-fiction adventure keeps moving faster than its own hyperdrive?
A film powered by confidence alone, shedding ideas as it goes, convinced that momentum will be enough.

Some films charge ahead. Some take their time. And some move so quickly between ideas they forget to let any of them land. Lost in Space (1998) is that third kind — a confident, expensive adventure that moves like a film in a hurry, explains, reassures, and pushes forward, rarely pausing long enough to let tension take hold. What should feel like momentum slowly turns into distance — scenes pass, rules blur, and consequence slips quietly out of frame.

There’s intelligence and effort on display, but very little patience. It can carry you across the galaxy, but it forgets the small packets of nuts and coffee — and you feel the absence long before the destination.