Static, Silence and the Space Between

Step into the writers' room - where coffee is courage, drafts are dangerous, and we let the characters hijack our sleep.

We’re still here, weaving destiny, falling into grey worlds and unleashing another untamed scoundrel story.

Welcome back

Late Night Musings with Rogues and Scoundrels.

There’s an old park bench near the corner of a winding trail. The kind that leans just enough to suggest time has passed, softened timber, a slight curve from too many quiet sit-downs.

That’s where Dad used to sit.

Not every day.

Just… often enough.

Long enough.

Always watching.

Always writing something down in his mind.

Sometimes, I sit there now.

And sometimes, he sits with me.

It started with a story.

Just a short one.

Published in 1961 in a fanzine that still smells like ink and afternoons.

Dad was young when he wrote it - but the seed was already there.

A quiet kind of brilliance.

The kind you don’t fully notice until years later, when you're holding the same paper and whispering - This could be something more.

And it is.

Because that short story?

It’s grown limbs.

It’s grown shadow.

It’s grown teeth and heart and a pulse strong enough to echo through time.

It was never just about a boy disappearing from reality. It was about the space left behind.

The silence.

The grief.

The metaphor of vanishing while still being seen.

Dad didn’t know it then, but this was just the start.

You’ve shared our journey, we’re adapting the story for the silver screen, but in true R&S fashion – one project is never enough.

So, we’re now in the early stages of developing that once-little tale into a limited series set in the late 1990s - a decade pulsing with static, VHS fuzz, and internet birth pains.

It’s a noir-tinged psychological thriller.

Cosmic. Personal. Haunting.

The central mystery? Memory laspses.

The deeper story?

A woman who once walked where he walked and may be the only one who remembers - in fragments.

Because she, too, vanished.

Only now… she’s come back changed.

It’s all still swirling: memory implants, lost time, false identities, a digital fog that grows thicker the deeper you go.

Working title? We’ll save that for later.

But know this: it’s coming.

Also, and we say this with love and mild panic - we’re going to need a bigger bench. Because every time we sit down to write, seventeen more characters pull up beside us like it’s Storytime in the park.

We’ve got shieldmaidens arguing with detectives, a frightened spaceman looking at an old has been, and a 10-year-old girl insisting she knows how the universe ends.

Honestly, if one more ghost girl asks for backstory, we’re charging rent.

Every story starts somewhere.

Sometimes in a longship.

Sometimes on a spaceship.

And sometimes, quietly, on a park bench beneath a tired gum tree.

Dad never wrote for glory.

He wrote because he had to.

Because there were worlds in him too big to keep inside.

I get that now.

I sit on his bench with a notebook of my own.

Same habit.

Different century.

But maybe, just maybe, the same universe.