WRITING PHILOSOPHY
I've spent enough time in boardrooms watching executives' eyes glaze over when someone mentions "digital transformation" to know that most business writing is just expensive sleep therapy. Equally, I've seen enough "creative" work that prioritises style over substance to understand why clients get frustrated with agencies.
My approach bridges these worlds: taking complex ideas and making them genuinely accessible, finding the human story within strategic frameworks, and creating content that connects rather than just communicates.
What fascinates me about writing across different contexts—from Netflix campaigns to mental health advocacy—is discovering the common thread: people respond to authenticity, clarity, and work that respects their intelligence whilst acknowledging their reality.
The best way to understand how I approach writing is to see where that approach comes from. These aren't just stories—they're the experiences that taught me how to find the human element in any brief, whether I'm writing for a global brand or capturing someone's most vulnerable moment.
The Film Set That Taught Me About Storytelling
The call time was 5:30am, and I was the most junior person on a Netflix production with a budget larger than some countries' GDP. My job as production assistant was simple: keep track of schedules, wrangle equipment, and try not to get in anyone's way.
What I didn't expect was to get a masterclass in storytelling from watching magic tricks go wrong.
"Death by Magic" was a series about a magician attempting history's most dangerous illusions—the kind that had killed previous performers. On paper, it sounded like sensationalist television. On set, I quickly realised it was something else entirely: a study in what makes people believe in impossible things.
The presenter, Drummond Money-Coutts, wasn't just performing tricks. He was building trust. Every take began the same way—not with the magic, but with the story of why this particular illusion mattered. Who had attempted it before? What had gone wrong? Why was he willing to risk everything to get it right?
I watched him repeat the same opening sequence seventeen times, adjusting not the technical explanation of the trick, but the emotional weight of why anyone should care about a man locking himself in a coffin underwater.
"The magic isn't in the escape," he told me during a break, watching the crew reset lighting for take eighteen. "It's in making people invest in whether I'll make it out alive. If they don't care about the person, they won't care about the trick."
By hour twelve of what should have been a six-hour shoot day, I understood what I was really watching: the difference between showing someone something and making them feel something.
The sequences that made it to air weren't the ones where the illusions worked flawlessly.
They were the ones where you could see the genuine moment of doubt in Drummond's eyes—the split second where even he wasn't certain he'd survive his own ambition.
That's when I realised that great storytelling isn't about removing vulnerability—it's about making vulnerability feel purposeful.
The crew wrapped at 2am, eighteen hours after we'd started. As I helped pack equipment, the director pulled me aside.
"You've been watching differently than the other PAs," she said. "What did you notice?"
I told her about the seventeen takes, about how Drummond never changed the technical explanation but kept adjusting the emotional entry point. About how the best moments happened when the performance cracked slightly and something real showed through.
"That's good instinct," she said. "Most people think television is about what you show. It's actually about what you make people feel while you're showing it."
Six months later, I was developing campaigns for brands worth millions, and I kept thinking about those seventeen takes. The clients who succeeded weren't the ones with the flashiest presentations or the biggest budgets. They were the ones who understood that their audience needed to care about them as people before they'd care about them as a brand.
Whether you're escaping from an underwater coffin or launching a new product, the principle is the same: give people a reason to invest in your success. Make them want you to make it out alive.
That eighteen-hour day taught me that storytelling isn't about the story you want to tell—it's about the story your audience needs to believe. Sometimes the most powerful moment is the one where you let them see you're human too.
Director's Note: This experience shaped how I approach every creative brief. Clients often want to lead with features, achievements, or credentials. But audiences connect with stakes, vulnerability, and reasons to care. The best campaigns, like the best magic tricks, make people invest emotionally before they invest financially.
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The Portrait That Made Her Grandmother Cry
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She was 87 years old and convinced she wasn't photogenic.
"I don't know why my granddaughter insists on this," Margaret said, fidgeting with her cardigan as I set up my camera in her sitting room. "I haven't had a proper photo taken in decades."
I'd been commissioned by her granddaughter Emma for what seemed like a straightforward portrait session—three generations of women, celebrating Margaret's upcoming 88th birthday. But five minutes into our conversation, I realised this wasn't about getting a nice family photo. This was about capturing someone who'd become invisible to herself.
Margaret had spent sixty years taking care of everyone else. Raised four children whilst working as a seamanship instructor during the war, nursed her husband through his final illness, and still made Sunday roast for twelve family members every week. But when I asked her to tell me about herself—not her roles, just herself—she went quiet.
"I'm not very interesting," she said finally.
That's when I knew what photo I needed to take.
Instead of the formal sitting room setup Emma had requested, I asked Margaret to show me something that mattered to her. She led me to a small conservatory where she'd been growing orchids for thirty years. Her entire demeanour changed. Her hands moved with precision as she explained the delicate balance of light and water each variety needed.
"This one hasn't bloomed in two years," she said, touching a particularly stubborn plant.
"But I keep talking to her. Plants need encouragement, you know."
I raised my camera.
The photo I captured wasn't posed. It was Margaret, completely absorbed in coaxing life from something fragile, her face lit by late afternoon sun filtering through glass, her expression focused and gentle and absolutely certain of her purpose.
When I showed her the image on my camera's screen, she stared at it for a long moment.
"Is that really me?" she asked.
Three weeks later, Emma called me. The family had gathered for Margaret's birthday, and when they unveiled the portrait—printed and framed as the centrepiece of the celebration—Margaret had started crying.
Not sad tears. Recognition tears.
"She kept saying, 'I look like someone who matters,'" Emma told me. "She's been carrying the photo in her handbag, showing it to everyone. Yesterday she told the cashier at Tesco that her granddaughter hired a 'proper photographer' just for her."
The photo now hangs in Margaret's hallway, the first thing visitors see when they enter her home. Emma says it's changed how her grandmother moves through the world—shoulders a bit straighter, voice a bit stronger when she introduces herself.
That's what happens when you show someone themselves clearly: they start believing they're worth seeing.
The technical aspects of the portrait were simple—natural light, shallow depth of field, a moment of genuine engagement. But the real work happened in those first five minutes of conversation, when I realised we weren't just taking a photo. We were returning someone to herself.
Six months later, Margaret sent me a Christmas card with a photo she'd taken of her conservatory. "My orchids are all blooming now," she wrote. "I think they like being talked to by someone who knows she matters."
Director's Note: This piece demonstrates my approach to portrait work—it's never just about the technical execution. The best portraits happen when you understand what story needs telling and who needs to see themselves differently. The camera captures the moment, but the real work is in the conversation that makes that moment possible.
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Now let me show you how this translates into business writing.
WORDS THAT BREATHE. STORIES THAT STAY.
I write for the moments that stay long after the screen fades to black, the campaign ends, or the page is turned. My work lives in the pause between thought and feeling — where detail, rhythm and honesty meet.
SECTION 01 - TV/FILM
SCREEN
TV PILOT - TEASER & ACT ONE
THE GIRL WHO WASN'T
When a forensic image specialist with gaps in her own childhood discovers the same unknown girl lurking in decades of unrelated photographs, she pulls a thread that unravels a quiet industry built on erasing people — and asks whether she herself is one of them.
SECTION 02 - POETRY
POETRY
SECTION 03- BRAND COPY
COMMERCIAL WRITING
EMAIL MARKETING
STOP BEING "JUST" A FREELANCER
An email I wrote because I got tired of hearing good people apologize for their rates. It's direct advice about pricing like you mean it, with a postscript that calls out imposter syndrome. The kind of message that makes freelancers forward it to their friends.
BRAND CAMPAIGN
UNFRAMED PHOTOGRAPHY
Campaign copy for a photography studio that wanted to skip the fake smiles and perfect poses. I wrote about capturing real moments instead—the kind of photos you'd actually want on your wall. The headline "Stop Posing. Start Being" did exactly what it was supposed to do.
SOCIAL MEDIA
LINKEDIN & INSTAGRAM
I write social posts about the stuff we think but don't usually say out loud. The goal isn't just likes—it's starting real conversations about what it actually looks like to build something that matters. These posts consistently get people sharing their own stories in the comments, not just dropping fire emojis.