A Shout Out to the Women Who Raised Me

I raise my glass.

Yes - a glass, not a mug.

We’re musing with a liquid of a different hue tonight.

Not the usual caffeine-fuelled chaos.

No midnight scribbles or cold dregs of ambition.

This isn’t coffee.

This is something stronger.

This is a toast.

To the women I watched.

And to the women who watched me -

through tantrums, heartbreaks, haircuts,

career pivots, and a thousand soft implosions.

The ones who said, go on, girl.

And the ones who said, sit down, babe -

you’re spiralling.

They saw me before I could name myself.

Held mirrors when I was fog.

Laughed when I forgot how.

And stayed, even when I rewrote the script.

So here’s to them.

The women who made me.

Not with blueprints.

But with bite. And balm.

And bubbles.

Because some stories aren’t brewed.

They’re raised.

Welcome back

Late Night Musings with Rogues and Scoundrels

I hope that you have enjoyed meeting her acquaintance as much as we have enjoyed creating our Evie Raven.

Named after two strong independent women in our lives to create one defiant retro 90’s power chick, that’s taking her memory back one piece at a time.

From the first flicker of static on the screen, we knew she wasn’t just a character - she was a reckoning.

Evie Raven emerged from the greyworld with boots planted, eyes narrowed, and a past she couldn’t quite place - but intended to reclaim. She didn’t ask permission to exist.

She just… appeared.

Unapologetic.

Unfolding in fragments.

And somehow, she felt like someone we already knew.

There is a particular kind of magic stitched into you when you’re raised by women who refused to be quiet.

This one’s for them.

For the ones in sequins and spotlight: Judy Garland, Ginger Rogers, Lauren Bacall, Ann Margret - who taught me that a woman could be graceful and gutsy in the same breath.

That glamour didn’t mean weakness.

That a smile could be both weapon and invitation.

For the ones who fought back: Sarah Connor taught me survival.

Ripley showed me how to stand alone, alien drool dripping inches from my face, and not flinch.

Erin Brockovich made dirty water feel like holy war.

Trinity didn’t wait to be rescued. She was the code.

And Amélie, with her dreamy French whimsy, reminded me that revolution can come quietly too -with a spoon, a stolen glance, or a skipped stone. (Perhaps it’s no surprise I ended up with a French name.)

To the wordsmiths and wild ones: Olivia Wilde, Sarah Polley, Greta Gerwig, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Lena Dunham, Diablo Cody, Sofia Coppola - you gave voice to the parts of myself I didn’t know I was allowed to write down.

You shattered the fourth wall, danced barefoot through genre, and proved a script can bleed, flirt, rage, and still leave room for tenderness.

And to the Australians who walked before me: Claudia Karvan, Toni Collette, Nicole Kidman, Margot Robbie - you carved out space in an industry that never really made room for women like us.

You kicked open doors in heels or barefoot, depending on the scene.

But beyond the silver screen and the writer’s room, I was raised by women with no film credits.

By a strong and wonderful mum who kept showing up - when it was easy, when it was hard, and every moment in between.

Who gifted me a love of nature and animals and art.

The woman who swiftly gave me a book called ‘The Paper bag Princess’ to combat gendered society norms trying to shape a little girl.

The woman who spoon feed me not only nourishment, but affirmations as a toddler in a highchair.

Weaving her hopes and dreams of raising a strong, kind, feminist.

By sisters (by blood and by bond) who knew when to call me out and when to call me home. By mentors made from friendships and long conversations, and cups of tea that turned into hours.

They taught me how to tell a story, but more importantly, how to live one.

To all the women who raised me, whether you appeared in Technicolor, on VHS, or at the kitchen table - you gave me the tools.

The courage.

The style.

The fight.

I am here, building worlds with my love, at Rogues & Scoundrels, because you made sure I had something worth fighting for.

We honour you.

We write for you.

And now?

For our Evie Raven, our Eilidh, for our Marion, for those of you I am yet to dream into existence, as these women before me…

We run.