• You wrote an early draft of the pilot over a single weekend, and it went on to advance at the Austin Film Festival and win Best Television Script at Oxford. How do you protect the raw, instinctive momentum of a script written so quickly while managing the rigorous rewriting process needed for prestige TV?

To clarify, the early draft of Prairie Thunder went on to become a Second Rounder at the Austin Film Festival, while the most recent draft won Best Television Script at Oxford Script Awards. As a writer, I believe the first draft should be a sprint. Early on, I focus less on structure and more on instinct. The characters need to feel alive, the dialogue needs to flow naturally, and the world needs to reveal itself without being overanalysed. If I’m constantly stopping to evaluate every choice through that vital first draft, I find the story loses its energy before it has a chance to fully emerge on the page and reveal what it intends to become. That raw momentum is incredibly important, but it is only the beginning of the process. Rewriting is where the real work begins. Once the instinctive draft exists, I start asking harder questions. Why is this scene here? What is the character truly after? Is the dialogue revealing something new, or simply repeating information? Every revision is an opportunity to remove what is unnecessary and strengthen what is essential. For me, rewriting is not about replacing instinct. It’s about refining it. The goal is to preserve the emotional truth that made the first draft exciting while building the structural discipline necessary for television. The version of Prairie Thunder that advanced at Austin and the version that won at Oxford in my category are dramatically different scripts in many respects. Yet both were built from the same foundation: trusting instinct first, then earning every moment through revision. Writing is much like carving out a sculpture. The first draft provides the stone. Rewriting is the process of chipping away everything that doesn’t belong until the story finally reveals itself.

• Acclaimed Indigenous actor Justin Rain has expressed interest in portraying your lead role, Reggie Lonechild. How does having a specific, established actor attached to or interested in your project alter or refine your approach to character development and dialogue?

Funny you should mention Justin. I just had coffee with him and his wife, Violet, who is also a talented actress, to discuss Prairie Thunder and potential paths toward bringing the project into production. For anyone familiar with Justin’s career — which includes acclaimed performances in Blackstone, Tribal, Fear the Walking Dead, Resident Alien, and dozens of other film and television projects — he brings a remarkable intensity and authenticity to every role he takes on. Beyond his work as an actor, he has spent more than a decade inspiring youth across Canada through his advocacy against drug and alcohol abuse, challenges he overcame early in his own life. He is someone who leads with both conviction and compassion, qualities that align closely with Reggie Lonechild. Having Justin express genuine interest in the role has meant a great deal to me as a writer. While developing Reggie, I’ve been able to lean into many of the strengths Justin naturally possesses as a performer — his emotional depth, quiet strength, and ability to communicate profound feeling, often with minimal dialogue. As a writer, that’s an exciting place to work from because you know the emotional complexity you’re putting on the page has the potential to be fully realized on screen. Perhaps most importantly, Justin has provided invaluable feedback throughout the development process. Over the past nine months, as Prairie Thunder evolved from a bare-bones concept and into a fully realized series outline and pitch deck, he has offered thoughtful insight into the character, the story, and the themes at its core. The result is that Reggie has become a richer and more authentic character than he would have been otherwise. While the role was always important, having an actor of Justin’s caliber engage so deeply with the material has helped shape Reggie into the emotional heart of the story — a character I would be honored for Justin to bring to life.

• In addition to screenwriting, you are an accomplished abstract painter. You’ve mentioned that instinct, texture, and subconscious symbolism drive your visual art—how exactly does that methodology cross over into the way you structure a screenplay or build visual tension on the page?

My artwork and writing exist on two separate, yet equal planes where structure and chaos constantly collide. When I paint, the process is almost entirely instinctive. I rarely begin with a clear destination in mind. Instead, I allow shapes, textures, and subconscious imagery to emerge naturally, often resulting in highly detailed abstract works that I can’t fully define myself. The process is less about control and more about discovery. Writing requires more precision. Words demand a level of clarity that abstract art does not. A screenplay still needs structure, character, and narrative momentum. Yet the influence of my artwork is present in nearly everything I write. Rather than beginning with plot, I often begin with images, emotions, contradictions, or fragments of character. A look between two people. A feeling of isolation. A question that refuses to leave my mind. Much like painting, I trust instinct first and analysis second. The crossover is perhaps most evident in how I approach visual tension. I am constantly looking for what remains unsaid. In abstract art, negative space is often just as important as what appears on the canvas. In screenwriting, the same principle applies. A silence, a glance, or an unanswered question can sometimes carry more weight than pages of dialogue. Whether I’m painting or writing, the goal remains the same: creating something that resonates emotionally before it is fully understood intellectually. The audience doesn’t always need every answer. Sometimes the most powerful moments come from allowing people to feel something before they can explain why and giving them the space to arrive at their own interpretation.

• As the owner and operator of the independent record store Mile High Vinyl, you manage a fast-growing business alongside your creative endeavors. How has the daily discipline of running a retail business sharpened your “audience awareness” and narrative economy when writing?

Running a business, particularly one centered around music, has taught me a tremendous amount about audiences. At its core, Mile High Vinyl is built around understanding what people connect with emotionally. Every day, I’m helping customers rediscover albums that shaped their lives, introducing them to artists they’ve never heard before, or helping them track down records they’ve spent years searching for. To do that successfully, you need to develop a strong understanding of not only music, but people. Over time, operating the business has allowed me to build an enormous internal library of music and musical history. I spend my days immersed in thousands of albums spanning countless genres, decades, cultures, and artistic movements. That exposure has inevitably influenced my writing. Music plays a significant role in Prairie Thunder, and many scenes were shaped by specific songs, moods, and musical traditions. From the raw energy of Canadian garage rock to the haunting emotional depth of Billie Holiday, music has helped inform not only the atmosphere of the series, but also the emotional lives of its characters. I likely would never have discovered many of these artists, recordings, or influences had I not spent years curating records for a living. In many ways, music has become another storytelling tool. Just as a song can evoke a memory or emotion within seconds, I strive to create scenes that leave a similar impression on an audience. Running Mile High Vinyl has also reinforced the importance of audience awareness. Today, the store maintains a 4.93 out of 5.00 rating based on over 450 customer verified reviews. That doesn’t happen by accident. It comes from listening to people, understanding their expectations, paying attention to detail, and making sure every customer feels valued. I approach writing much the same way. While I believe every story needs a clear creative voice, I also think it’s important to understand the audience you’re writing for. The goal isn’t simply to tell the story you want to tell, but to tell it in a way that keeps people engaged, emotionally invested, and eager to turn the next page. Perhaps most importantly, running a business has taught me narrative economy. Customers don’t have unlimited time, and audiences don’t either. Every product description, email, advertisement, and customer interaction has taught me the value of clarity and efficiency. The same principle applies to screenwriting. Every scene, line of dialogue, and character decision should earn its place. If it doesn’t serve the story, it shouldn’t be there. In many ways, both businesses are built on the same foundation: understanding what people respond to emotionally and delivering an experience that stays with them long after it’s over.

• Your work relies heavily on moral ambiguity, drawing inspiration from masters like Kubrick, Hitchcock, and Vince Gilligan. In contemporary media, why do you think audiences are increasingly drawn to character-driven stories that deliberately resist easy moral answers?

Because humans are deeply contradictory creatures, and easy answers often undermine compelling drama. The people we encounter in real life are rarely entirely good or entirely bad. They are shaped by their experiences, fears, ambitions, regrets, and flaws. The most memorable characters in fiction reflect that reality. They make mistakes. They rationalize bad decisions. They surprise us. Sometimes they do the right thing for the wrong reasons, and sometimes they do the wrong thing for reasons we can understand. Drama, at its core, is the collision between desire and consequence. It is the accumulation of choices — both good and bad — and the ripple effects those choices create over time. If every problem has an obvious solution, or every character can be neatly categorized as hero or villain, much of the tension disappears. I think audiences today are increasingly drawn to stories that resist easy moral answers because life itself rarely provides them. We live in a world filled with complexity, contradiction, and competing perspectives. The strongest stories challenge us to wrestle with difficult questions rather than simply providing comfortable conclusions. Storytellers like Kubrick and Hitchcock understood that, and Vince Gilligan continues that tradition through his extraordinary body of work in television. They trusted audiences to engage with ambiguity rather than fear it. Their characters are often fascinating not because of what they do, but because they force us to question how we might respond under the same circumstances. Ultimately, I believe audiences want stories that respect their intelligence. Show me a story with easy answers, and what you’ll often find is a story that has very little, if anything worth saying. The stories that stay with us are the ones that continue provoking questions long after the credits roll, or the final page is turned.

• Being based in Saskatchewan, Canada, how do you view the importance of regional, place-specific storytelling in cutting through the noise of the global indie film market?

One of the great misconceptions in storytelling is that a story must appeal to everyone to resonate with anyone, when the opposite is often true. The more specific a story becomes to a place, culture, or community, the more authentic and universal it can feel. Storytelling allows audiences to experience worlds they might never otherwise encounter. Films like Slumdog Millionaire transported viewers into the streets of Mumbai, while Parasite demonstrated that a story deeply rooted in South Korean culture and their competing class structure could resonate with audiences around the world. Their success wasn’t rooted in broadness, but in authenticity. I believe the same principle applies to Saskatchewan. Rural Saskatchewan is a place filled with rich history, complex relationships, and stories that are rarely represented on screen. Yet the emotions found there — love, loss, guilt, hope, fear, and forgiveness — remain universal. While audiences may not recognize the Prairie landscapes or understand every cultural nuance, they understand what it means to carry a secret, to seek justice, to fear the truth, to fall in love, and to wonder whether the past can ever truly be left behind. Regional storytelling cuts through the noise because it offers something new. In an increasingly global market, audiences are exposed to more content than ever before. What often stands out is not what feels familiar, but what feels authentic. A story doesn’t need to come from Los Angeles, New York, or London to connect globally. It simply needs to tell the truth about the people and place it represents. For me, Prairie Thunder is deeply rooted in Saskatchewan, but its themes extend far beyond provincial borders. The setting makes the story unique. The humanity within it is what makes it universal.

• Prairie Thunder has put together a fantastic run across international festivals and competitions this year. What has this wave of multi-festival validation meant for the overall trajectory and packaging of the project?

I began screenwriting at fourteen, and throughout my teens and early twenties, I was writing upwards of a quarter of a million words a year. At one point, I was writing entire feature-length screenplays over a single weekend — a feat I’m not entirely sure I could replicate today, although I’ve learned never to underestimate what can be accomplished when inspiration and discipline align. What I lacked during those years wasn’t passion or discipline, but validation. There was no real roadmap, no industry feedback, and very few people around me who understood why I was so compelled to write in the first place. Because of that, placements at competitions such as Austin, recognition through Hollywood Indie and the win for Best Television Script at Oxford carried a significance far beyond the awards themselves. They validated something I had hoped for, but never fully had the confidence to believe — that I had something meaningful to say, and that the worlds I was building on the page could resonate with people beyond my immediate circle.More importantly, the recognition has helped establish momentum for Prairie Thunder itself. Over the course of a year, the project has evolved from an idea into a lean, confident pilot and fully developed series concept that has earned multiple international placements, generated interest from established industry talent, and continued to grow creatively with every revision. That kind of response suggests there is an audience for this story and that the themes at its core have the potential to reach people far beyond Saskatchewan.From a trajectory standpoint, my focus remains on finding the right team to champion the project. Television is an incredibly collaborative medium, and Prairie Thunder deserves partners who understand both its emotional ambitions and its cultural significance. As for packaging, the pitch deck is polished, the series outline is complete, and conversations are ongoing. The goal now is to continue building the right relationships and put Prairie Thunder in a position where it can make the transition from a decorated speculative television script into a produced television series.

• Now that you are stepping into the role of a juror for our next edition, what specific elements are you hoping to discover in the submissions? What makes a character’s introduction or a pilot’s hook truly undeniable to you?

As a juror at Hollywood Indie Festival, I want to read and view material that makes me feel something. I want to be surprised. Challenged. Moved. I want to encounter stories that aren’t afraid to take risks, question assumptions, and stand for something beyond entertainment alone. Too often, characters are treated as chess pieces designed to move a plot from Point A to Point B. The stories that stay with me do the opposite. They treat characters as real people with years of unseen history behind them — people who contradict themselves, make mistakes, carry regrets, and occasionally surprise even themselves. Those contradictions are what make characters feel alive. Charles Bukowski once said, “don’t try.” I’ve always interpreted that as a reminder not to force the work. Don’t chase trends. Don’t write what you think people want to read. Find the story beneath the story. Find the emotional truth. If a writer can do that, audiences will follow them almost anywhere. As for character introductions and story hooks, I believe first impressions matter. I want to learn something compelling about a character immediately. Show me a contradiction. Show me an impossible choice. Show me someone doing something unexpected. Some of the most memorable introductions in film and television tell us everything we need to know about a character within minutes, while leaving us desperate for more. Whether it’s the adrenaline-fueled pre-title sequence of a James Bond film or the unforgettable introductions found in Tarantino’s best work, great openings create curiosity. They immediately make the audience lean forward and ask questions. Who is this person? What the fuck just happened? Where is this going? The moment those questions take hold, you’ve earned the audience’s attention. If the journey that follows is worthwhile, you may just earn their respect. For me, the quickest way to lose an audience is to begin with scenes that feel routine or interchangeable. The strongest openings don’t simply introduce a world — they create an immediate sense that something meaningful, surprising, or unforgettable is about to happen. Pull the pin from the hand grenade and leave it sitting on the table in a crowded room. Once that anticipation takes hold, the audience is yours.

• With Prairie Thunder serving as your most ambitious work to date, what are the next crucial milestones you are targeting to transition this project from a highly decorated script into actual physical production?

The next phase is ultimately about people. A strong screenplay can open doors, but television is a collaborative medium. No matter how strong the material may be, projects move forward because the right people believe in them and decide to champion them. For me, the immediate priorities are continuing to build the team around Prairie Thunder. That means attracting additional respected acting talent, strengthening industry relationships, and finding the right production company to serve as a creative and strategic partner. Many creators become solely focused on representation — and while representation is certainly important — assembling the right team is equally critical. The people you surround yourself with often determine how far a project can go. The encouraging part is that Prairie Thunder is no longer simply a script. It has evolved into a fully realized series concept with a confident, award-winning pilot, an extensive series outline, a polished pitch deck, and growing industry interest. The foundation is there. The challenge now is finding collaborators who connect with the material as deeply as I do and who understand both its commercial potential and its emotional ambitions. Every attachment helps build momentum, whether that’s an actor, producer, production company, or advocate willing to help open the next door. My goal now is to put Prairie Thunder in front of the right people and continue building a team capable of bringing the world of Grassland to life. The story is ready. The next milestone is finding the partners who can help carry it from the page to the screen.