Welcome to The Smoking Area
Let's collectively share a cigarette and tell each other our biggest dreams.
The alchemy that happens in the spaces between — the liminal moments when we step away from the choreographed dance of social performance and find ourselves in the raw, midnight air of honesty.
When the party's dull roar fades behind a closing door, when pretence falls away like an ill-fitting coat and we finally exhale the words we’ve been holding in our chest like unspent prayers.
This is such a space.
The Smoking Area is a state of being. A threshold crossed between what we’re supposed to say and what we’re burning to tell. It’s where writers gather when they’re tired of wearing the mask of marketable palatability, when they’re ready to strike the match of their truth against the rough surface of convention and watch it catch fire.
It’s the side door of the internet. The unfiltered conversations that don’t fit neatly into 280 characters or brand-safe messaging. The thoughts that refuse to be optimised, the words that might get messy before they get profound.
This is a place for the ones who think too much, feel too deeply, and know — deep in their bones — that creativity isn’t something to be polished into submission, but something wild that must be freed.
Why “The Smoking Area”?
Because, while I haven’t lit a cigarette since probably 2011, there is something about that space that I miss. The loud, bang-average party, the sweat dripping off the walls, the options for connection being: dance or shout, and deciding to go and sit outside in the freezing cold so you can chat instead.
I was always the one disappearing at the club. My mates always knew they’d find me in the smoking area, chatting to my new best friend, sharing life stories and dreams and goals and avoiding the chaos inside.
If that’s not a metaphor for how I live and work, now, still to this day, I don’t know what is.
What You’ll Find Here
The Smoking Area is an evolving body of work about writing, creativity, and the impossible task of being a thinking person on the internet. I want to put the art back into marketing, unlearn the performative habits that digital platforms have baked into us, and build a body of work that actually means something.
Here’s what I’ve committed to delivering:
For free subscribers:
Personal essays on creativity, self-censorship, and the business of writing. The raw, unfiltered meditations on finding your voice in a world that prefers echoes.
How writing shapes the way we think, and how digital culture has fundamentally rewired us.
The nuance of truth-telling in public spaces — how to write honestly without pandering, posturing, or burning yourself out.
A writing exercise at the end of every article — because expression should never have to wait until later, and sometimes you just need the reminder to write. Right now.
For paid subscribers:
Deep-dive storytelling lessons and writing practices. Not vague “tips,” but real, actionable ways to write stories (and marketing) that hit.
The exact frameworks I use in my work — from messaging and copywriting to building a body of work that actually sells.
Behind-the-scenes insights into my creative process and business. The real-time, unsanitised lessons from turning words into a livelihood.
Access to my private writing library — templates, prompts, and creative practices that don’t just make you a better writer, but a better thinker.
Both spaces are valuable. Both will challenge you to go deeper. Neither will waste your time.
Why would you want to hang out in The Smoking Area?
Because transformation has always happened at the edges. In the spaces between acceptable and authentic. In those moments when we stop filtering our fire through someone else’s lens and instead let it burn as it will.
Maybe it started long before I knew.
Growing up, my mum had books everywhere. Not neatly arranged on shelves, but piled in every available space — teetering on nightstands, stacked beside the couch, even creeping into the kitchen.
Instead of a bedside table, she had a leaning tower of novels. Mugs of half-drunk tea perched precariously on top. One wrong move and cold tea would spill over pages, marking the moment in a way bookmarks never could.
You could often hear her from the other room, “shit, shit, shit, shit” when yet another tea tsunami had flooded her bed.
She never finished just one book at a time. She liked to start three or four or five so she’d “never finish one too soon”.
We didn’t have a lot of money growing up. But we had stories. Whole worlds to escape to. Whole universes waiting inside pages. The perfect medicine for any affliction of the soul. A literary apothecary.
That’s what stories do. That’s what good narrative has the power to do.
They change what we believe is possible. They shift the way we see love, pain, ambition, and potential.
That’s why I write. That’s why I teach storytelling. Because if you know how to use your words — if you know how to capture the truth of a moment and wield it well — you can move mountains.
I’ve spent the last 17 years helping people do just that.
I started in a newspaper writing headlines. (Nothing will teach you how to make every word count like an ad salesman breathing down your neck). Then I went on to write for brands, entrepreneurs, and businesses that actually give a damn.
And now, I’m here.
Building a body of work I don’t have to edit into corporate compliance.
Teaching people how to do the same.
Who This is For (and Who It’s Not)
The Smoking Area is for you if:
You want your writing to feel like you — not a performance designed to impress.
You’re done with “playing the algorithm” and want to build something that lasts.
You’re tired of a culture that rewards certainty over curiosity, and you crave a space where messy, unfinished ideas are welcome.
You want to write more, create more, and say the damn thing — without self-editing it into oblivion.
You want to put the art back in marketing, the creativity back in business, and the human back in writing.
You appreciate nuance, context, story and respect the right to change your mind, to evolve, to let work build over time.
This is not for you if:
You’re looking for plug-and-play copywriting formulas to “go viral” and such the like.
You want neatly packaged, universally palatable business and copywriting advice.
You’re more interested in sounding smart / making loads of money than actually writing things that matter (you can do both).
You think “having a point of view” means being contrarian for the sake of it.
You’d rather debate the rules than break them and make better ones.
The Smoking Area is a place for truth-tellers, thought-explorers, and the ones who refuse to flatten their voice for easy digestion.
If that’s you, you’re in the right place.
An Invitation
This is for the ones who feel it all too much.
Who think too deeply, love too fiercely, create too wildly for the neat containers of conventional success.
For those who’ve tried to squeeze their oceanic voices into Twitter-sized bottles and felt parts of themselves evaporate in the process.
If you’re carrying words like unspent lightning…
If you’re tired of translating your fire into business casual smoke signals…
If you’re ready to find your people, your power, your unsanitised voice…
Then, welcome to The Smoking Area
The best conversations have always happened out here. Out where it’s quieter, colder, and just far enough from the chaos inside that you can actually hear yourself think.
Don’t get me wrong — I loved the party. I was on the dance floor. I knew the DJ’s name. I lost my mind to songs I only half knew. But somehow, without fail, I always ended up here.
The smoking area. The side quest. The place where you sit on an upturned crate next to someone you’ll probably never see again and tell them your entire life story.
That’s what this space is. A reprieve from the constant performance. A place for the conversations you actually want to have, with people who aren’t afraid to tell the truth, write the damn thing, and let their ideas breathe.
So light your metaphorical cigarette. Or just stand out here for the vibe. Either way — pull up a chair.
And if the cost of entry would keep your voice from this gathering, reach out. We keep seats warm for the ones who need to be heard.
