A girl stands on a hill, which looks over the suburbs and streets below.

The street lights illuminate giving a beautiful orangey glow to the view.

ALEX, 15, wears a big coat wrapped around her petite body and a blue beanie with strands of mousy brown hair peaking out.

She hops from one foot to the other as she anxiously glances around for someone.

Another girl appears as she walks up the hill.

It is MIA, 15, she wears ripped black jeans and a tight black crop top, totally unfazed by the cold.

Alex is relieved to see her.

ALEX: You came!

Mia takes a pack of Winfield Blue cigarettes out of her backpack and brushes her platinum blonde hair out of her face.

ALEX: I bet there are a lot of rumours about why you are back. And why you left…

Mia lights her cigarette and sits on a large rock.

ALEX: Why are you back?

Mia smokes her cigarette, looking out at the view.

Alex continues to rub her arms from the cold.

ALEX: You smoke now?

Mia holds the cigarette out to Alex, offering a drag. The filter is smudged with her red lipstick.

ALEX: No thanks, Mum hates smoking.

Mia smiles.

She takes a long drag, and exhales a cloud of smoke.

A beat.

MIA: You haven’t changed a bit.

ALEX: Neither have you.

Mia ignores the comment and stands up.

She begins walking back down the hill.

She doesn’t look behind her.

MIA: Come on.

Alex hesitates for a second and then jogs to catch up.

ALEX: Aren’t you freezing in that? It’s like minus thirty degrees!

Mia laughs. Alex smiles at the sound of it.

They reach the bottom of the hill and Mia stops suddenly.

She hands her cigarette to Alex and reaches inside of her backpack.

She rustles through her bag and produces a tube of red lipstick.

She carefully smears the lipstick onto Alex’s lips, the shade matching her own lips.

Mia smiles, content with her application and Alex blushes slightly before composing herself.

ALEX (CONT’D): Now can we go? Not sure if I’ve mentioned, but I’m freezing!

The girls walk off into the darkness.



Alex sits at her kitchen table, rubbing her tired eyes.

Across from her, her FATHER reads the paper and finishes his morning cup of coffee.

Her MOTHER, emerges into the room in gardening gear and a bunch of red roses clutched in a glove covered hand.

She places the roses in a vase.

MOTHER: I heard Mia is back.

ALEX: Yes, she’s been back at school for a week.

MOTHER: I don’t want you hanging out with her. She was awful to you.

ALEX: She was just playing around.

Her Mother places the vase on the table.

MOTHER: She really hurt you, Alexandra!

ALEX: (raising her voice) I told you it was an accident!

A beat.

Her Father puts down the paper.

FATHER: Listen to your mother, Alexandra.

Alex’s phone buzzes.

The text message appears on screen.

MIA: Same place, same time tonight X

She locks the phone and looks back at her Father, smiling sweetly.

ALEX: Of course, Dad.


Alex’s alarm clock reads “23:45” and it dimly lights up the dark room.

Alex is dressed in her big coat.

She peers at her reflection in the mirror.

She has drawn a badly done eyeliner – an attempt of copying Mia’s cat eye makeup from last night.

Alex grabs pillows and jumpers from under her bed, and stuffs them under her Doona. Attempting to create an unconvincing human like lump in her bed.

She takes a deep breath, before opening her window.


MIA is a short screenplay.

Mr Bobo

Mr Bobo has no real name.

I call him Mr Bobo when referring to him to friends or when I’m needing to name him. He was so full of life, character, and quirkiness, but he could not be labelled.

“Do you mind me asking your name?” I asked politely, one quiet Sunday morning.

“I do not wish for a name”

“But what do I call you?”

“Just call me a friend.”

Mr Bobo seems to be a carefully constructed character who constantly whipped out lines like that one. He seemed to have adapted the persona from a badly written book.

I keep waiting for the act to drop. Or for the routine to finally reveal itself. But the cracks never did appear.

I wonder if Mr Bobo has created himself from the pages of different books and attempted to sew a life and personality together from the fragmented chronology .

But Mr Bobo is anything, but predictable.

One day, he would be stating that life is black and white. Another, that it’s all shades of grey.

“Big picture” he’d tell me as he only focused on the details.

I’m still not too sure what to make of Mr Bobo. I think he liked that.

After every interaction with him, I would scribble all that was done and said in order to make sense of it. I’m hopeful that all the various scenes will eventually form a crystal clear picture of who this man is. A narrative will be created and Mr Bobo will finally be understood.

He would recount what must be fabricated tales of his life. They were confusing, intriguing, sometimes ridiculous. But it all seemed a little too strange to be fiction.

Every visit from Mr Bobo was a surprise. And I began to wonder what would come from all our interactions.

He’s a committed a terrible crime, he told me one day when the store was empty.

“A murder?” I whispered back

“There are much worse crimes than murder,” his tone has darken. I held my breath

“I have taken someone’s soul and I do not intend to return it.”

I tried to stifle a laugh, but Mr Bobo was not having it.

“Have you ever had anyone try to steal your soul?”

“I have not,” I began to feel a little uncomfortable.

“Well, I can guarantee it is not a pleasant nor laughable experience”

I nodded my head slowly.

Mr Bobo then cheerfully paid for his things and left the shop.

A few days after the exchange, the police came in, asking about someone who matched Mr Bobo’s description. I could only offer them what little I knew. I was desperate for information.

“Has he done something really bad? Did he kill someone? Or steal something? And can you tell me his real name?”

But I was firmly told that it was none of my business.

I thought I’d never see Mr Bobo again.

And then I received a letter from him.


Mr Bobo is a short fiction piece.

How do I even begin?

Starting something is always difficult for me. Whether it be a project, a run (sorry that is a flat lie. I don’t run, I walk at an accelerated pace) or even a new tv show, taking the first step to actually begin is the most treacherous ordeal for me. My Dad had always told me “it’s not enough to just show up” when it comes to school and life. But I have found showing up something is often the hardest part. Doing the thing is rarely as stressful or punishing as getting the motivation to actually turn up.

My procrastination doesn’t stem from laziness, it is born out of fear. It can stop me in my tracks. Before I even get a pen out of my pencil case to write a sentence, fear is reminding always me about infinite reasons why I shouldn’t even bother. So the pen will remain in the pencil case, the sentence remains unwritten, and another project has been abandoned before it even had a chance to begin.

Creative ideas are especially great at remaining just that – ideas. They seldom became anything more than that distance dream or project because beginning them is a battle. Something to be completed when [enter excuse here]. There’s always reason to delay. But, I’m trying to break through that. And this blog is evidence of that. I am forever abandoning it then pushing through the fear and trying again with it. It is a process.

Currently I am trying to write a few short scripts for my internships. It is one of the first times where people from the industry actually want to read my work. It is terrifying. I don’t want to fuck it up. I’m worried that’ll format it wrong, I’ll miss the point completely or I’ll write something so shitty that they regret taking the time and effort to even read the words on the page. Therefore, I don’t write anything at all. I just watch the cursor blink back at me expectingly. Sometimes I feel like it is mocking me.

Opening Final Draft after months of simply ignoring it feels intimidating. Reminds of me when I first began my Screenwriting degree at VCA and was faced with the idea of writing a screen play. But I’m finished that degree and written plently of scripts on the oh so professional Final Draft. I just don’t know how to begin.

I was working on my major project for University last year, and I would try to write an inspirational quote at the top of a blank page in my notebook. Something I hoped would motivate me such as “inspiration exists. It just needs to find you working” or “you can’t edit a blank page”. These did motivate me to a point. However I found myself scribing in block letters “JUST FUCKING WRITE SOMETHING” when all else failed. And so I would write something. Even if it was “I don’t know what to write :)”. I ended up with a script and idea I was proud of. The simple act of turning up lead to hard work, all resulting in a project completed.

Now I’m trying that approach with my new project.

Write something. Anything. Let it be what it’ll be. You can fix it later. What is gonna look worse than a terrible script? No script at all. I’m gonna write that script and I will let it be terrible. Because sometimes you’ve just got to get yourself to show up and then see what happens.


How I allow myself begin;

  • Turn my phone on ‘do not disturb’. Trust me no one actually wants to talk to you. You’ll just end up watching ‘Kylie Jenner’s shadiest moments’ and then hating yourself
  • Leave the house to work – the effort of getting a spot at the library or price of a coffee at a cafe is usually enough to guilt me into working
  • Read a chapter of the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Forever inspiring. I’ll probably do a seperate blog post on how much I love this book.
  • Put on a banging playlist. When I’m hearing these tunes I’m entering a work headspace . You can find my current writing playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/user/1267687301/playlist/2ThFeXYUARSAaLqdBFbKYY?si=ZzjKooS5RA6je1Zha80fog
  • By simply repeating to myself “I am committing to the page”.


Shut up !

There is so much noise in the world, so the last thing I feel like doing is adding to it. I’ve always been quiet. Often described as shy. I hate that word. It implies it is my fault. Perhaps if everyone else would shut up for a second, they finally understand that I’m not shy. I’m loud and I’m noisy. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, I fill the room with my chatter. You can’t ignore my booming voice and obnoxious monologues. But I’m waiting for someone to listen.

“Oh, Abigail, you are so quiet. You must have a lot going on in your head”, Sara once said to me at recess. Yeah, I’ve got a lot going on in my head. They are called thoughts, you dumb bitch. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m being unkind. I can’t help it. All my anger and annoyance remains inside, bouncing around. I tend to ‘lash out’ as I heard Milly tell Annie in Science. Quiet people tend to. Of course, Sara doesn’t mean no harm. She’s nice. People actually like her. She’s “approachable” as my mother says. God, I wish she’d shut up.

“Abigail, you should try being approachable. Stop scowling all the time. Then you wouldn’t be so shy“, my mother continuously crows. I rolled my eyes so hard they almost fell out my head.

Approachable is one the most offensive things a person could say about another. Apart from ‘non-threatening’. If you’re described as ‘non-threatening’ then you might as well find a bridge and jump off it. Then you wouldn’t be a threat.

I’m just sick of people telling me that I should “speak up or “don’t be so shy!” Maybe if you listened to me, you’d see that being quiet is a better way to be. For starters, mindless small talk can finally be eliminated. Instead of awkwardly attempting to make chit chat with someone you could not give two shits about, you can entertain those much more interesting thoughts in your head. Leaving someone to their thoughts is one of the most polite things a respectable person can do.

Of course no one does this. And I am unfortunately routinely forced into discussing trivial matters with those who I could not care less about. If only everyone would learn to shut up.

I am not suggesting I have all the answers, but a little bit of peace and quiet wouldn’t hurt. I mean it’d probably would solve most world issues. But we will never know. Society likes the sound of it’s own repetitive, monotone voice.

When you speak you only repeat what you already know. But when you listen you listen you learn something new. So shut up.

The only things I’ve learnt when listening to other people is that gluten makes Annie sick and Sara thinks Kim Kardashian is a feminist. I might have to cut my own ears off. They’ve been filled with so much saccharin soaked nonsense they could drop off any second.

So I’m only gonna ask you once more.

Shut up.

Shut Up ! is a short story told from the voice of neurotic high school student Abigail. Let me know your thoughts.

No One Dogs the Boys

This is a comedy sketch I wrote last year for a University Revue that never quite happened.

Please note: All characters to be played by women


DAMO scrolls through Instagram on his phone.

JACKO sips a protein shake and lifts a weight.

SPAZ drinks a VB and wears a tshirt that says ‘STRAYAS MOST ORDINARY RIG’. 

DAMO: Amy just posted a pic of herself on insta. She is looking mighty fine if I do say myself. 

JACKO: Perfect opportunity to slide into the DMs.

D: I dunno. Don’t wanna come across creepy.

SPAZ: You won’t, mate. It’s a well know fact that when chicks post a picture of themselves they want a guy to validate their appearance. 

J: That sounds ’bout right.

D: I dunno…

S: Trust me. I read it on LadBible and they really know women. 

D: Aight… Should I just say ‘hey’ or something?

S: Fuck no. You’ll seem like a bloody flog. 

J: gay flog.

S: Just say something along the lines of ‘dammmmn that booty fine girl’ or ‘what that mouth do’

Jacko nods approvingly. 

J: Chill but still hinting you are interested

Damo types this. 

The texts/DM are projected on a screen behind the boys.

He hits send. 

A nervous beat

D: Oh shit! She’s seen it! She’s typing!

They all hold their breath.

The phone buzzes.

D: She says whats up?

J: aww mate! You are so in there!

Damo types again and hits send.

D: I said “chilling with the lads bc Saturdays are for the boys”


The boys then whoop, cheer, yell ‘LADS’ and punching each other extremely hard. They even sing ‘footy, beers, chicks’.

It dies down after a while.

S: Now ask what she doin’

J: Oh shit yeah. Chicks love when you pretend to care about them and shit.

Damo types again.

D: I’ll send a winky face.

S: Niceee.

Damos phone buzzes again. As he reads the message his face falls.

S: What’d she say?

D: “Just talking to some dickhead lol”

A beat.

J: Is she talking to some other bloke as well?

S: Fuck that. Just ask her if she’s on period

Damo furiously types this.

The phone buzzes again.

D: She’s fucking blocked me!

The other two boys mourn the loss. 

J: Well that’s just feminism for ya. Show a bit of interest in a girl and its all delete my number and stop watching me sleep!

S: Tough tits mate. But not a total loss. Chimp said she wouldn’t suck him off first date.

D: Guess so…

A beat.

They are all at loss what to say.

D: No one dogs the boys tho? Gonna send her a rude message on facebook.

The three then begin yelling ‘lads’ and punching each other again.

Fade to black. 


This was intended to be a humorous commentary on how lad culture and how they speak about, ultimately treat women. Let me know your thoughts – was it funny?