"Ideas, Luke. There's nothing like the buzz of a good one."

I don't look at him, but I know what he means. I've felt it. In class. On the bus. With Leia.

"I messed up," I say, still staring into my lap.

Noah taps my elbow with his fist. "Yeah. You did."

I turn to him.

Noah Clarke. Boy from Bearwood who wrote a film.

Then he points past me out of my window.

"Two streets that way. Richard Dwyer's house."

I look out.

"In Year Seven, he chased me round the whole school twice, then gave me a kicking in front of everyone."

"Why?"

"God knows. He felt threatened, or he had stuff going on at home and was lashing out, or he was just a nasty piece of work. That and a thousand other shitty things. It doesn't matter." He mimes pouring from jugs with both hands.

"It all goes into the pot, Luke. Along with the first kisses and the broken bones and the packed bags and train journeys and the late night phone calls and funeral speeches. All of it. Stuff just happens. Nobody knows why. I didn't know that I would come back home, but I did. Not because I failed, because I chose to. That's what matters. That's what happens in my story, and I'm fine with it. I get to play with ideas and help other people do the same every single day. Maybe one day I'll write another film. Maybe I won't. Who knows?

"I love what I do. I love where I'm from and that I found my thing. Not everybody does." He balls his fists. "And that's fine. It is what it is. But if you do find your thing, something that makes your blood crackle, you better damn well do it."

He looks at me with sharp eyes. "You messed up, Luke, no denying it. But you're a maker, not a destroyer. You're a builder of ideas. I can see it."

He points right at me and I don't know what to say.

"Is film your thing?" he says, lifting his chin.

"I think so."

"So make, then! Stop wallowing in what you think you've broken and make something instead! Build something with Leia, or do it on your own, but do it."

"It's not that easy," I say.

"Who said anything about easy?" He sticks up two fingers. "Throwing that at the whole world is easy. Any idiot can do that. But making something that matters? Something that hits home? Only a handful of people can do that."

I can feel the energy coming off him.

"You just make sure you tell your story and nobody else's, yeah? Say what you want to say."

He bangs his chest with his fist.

"You do that, Luke, and you might even find out who you are."

Tommy tearing the plasterboard from a partition wall with his hands.

Zia in Selfridges surrounded by orange fake-tan faces, accidentally spraying aftershave in his own eyes.

Marc wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he chops onions.

Donna looking at flats online.

Mum signing a patient's cast with an 'X'.

Dad waiting in the Argos queue, blocking an old lady's view of the screen.

People talk about 'the zone'.

Marc used to speak about it when he was still running in races. That place where you almost feel like you're outside yourself. Like some higher power is passing through you and you're watching your own body performing what you were born to do.

Tommy on the football pitch.

Marc on the track.

I dunno if this is the same thing, but I know I can't stop.

I'm on my laptop. It feels right for this. Cutting and pasting.

Arranging lines in place.

If I'm not typing, I'm combing through my notebooks, finding bits. Scenes and thoughts. Memories and lines. Scribbling words. If I'm not doing that, I'm pacing my room, speaking ideas out loud, chunks of dialogue.

Or doing press-ups while picturing camera shots, trying to piece scenes and moments together.

Marc brings me bits of whatever food he's experimenting with.

Tahini and falafel. Chorizo and couscous.

Sunday comes and goes.

Monday night I pass out on my laptop keyboard.

Tuesday morning I wake up with my legs literally under a blanket of paper. My eyes sting, but every bone in me has a charge. I can't stop.

I won't stop. Not until it's finished.

I work all day. Donna comes over. Her and Marc invite me to watch a film with them. I tell them I don't have time. I run a bath, then forget I did. Piece by piece I build up my story. I use Marc's printer and make a physical pile, printed sheets mixed with notebook pages. Whole passages get crossed out, then rewritten. Typed-up, deleted, typed again.

My life is my scrapbook. Scribbled on. And full.

Balls of scrunched-up paper dot the room like graffitied snowballs.

I drink enough tea to fill a skip.

Noah said: Stuff just happens. Nobody knows why.

I can hear birds. It's early, but I've been awake for over an hour. I'm holding my most recent notebook.

I read the line: life isn't a film.

And I laugh out loud, sitting on my bedroom floor, a bombsite of ideas.

I'm Tom Hanks in Castaway. I'm Edward Scissorhands. I'm that other guy, from that film- "Lukey?"

Mum opens my door and I watch her eyes take in what must look like carnage to her.

"You OK, love?"

She's in her uniform. It's Wednesday morning.

"I'm all right," I say, and speaking the words feels like my brain slows down a little bit. "Just working on something."

"That's great, sweetheart. Can I open your window a bit?"

I nod. She tiptoes over notes and opens the window. The birdsong gets louder.

"You look tired, Luke." She's nodding the 'nurse' nod.

"I am tired, Mum. I'm knackered."

She looks worried.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll be finished soon, then I'll rest."

Mum smiles. "You always were your own man."

"Pardon?"

She waves her finger like a wand over the whole floor. "All this, you and your ideas. Something would just set you off, and whoosh!"

She's picturing something from the past, something she's never told me about before.

"Never needed stroking," she says. "Not like your brother, and God knows your dad did. Still does. You were always different. Always seemed like you were just gonna do what you wanted off your own back."

I look up at her. It's like I'm listening to her talk about someone else.

She sees my face and smiles. "Nobody pushed you and you found your way." She tiptoes back to the door and stands on the landing. "You do your thing, Lukey. I'll see you later."

And she goes. I hear the front door open and close, then through my open window her steps to her car, the door opening and swinging shut, the engine as she pulls away. I grab my pen and the nearest notebook.

Black.

Hum of a strip light and radio static as a dial tries to find a station.

Fade up to a face.

Noah never mentioned endings.

"Start where it matters," he said. "Start with a question."

Does that mean you should end with an answer? What does that even mean?

INT. DAY A pile of papers like crumpled A4 leaves full of words, some typed, some handwritten.

I tidy my room.

I shower.

I feel like I just climbed a mountain. All ache and satisfaction.

It's Thursday afternoon.

I did it.

Marc's made pad thai from scratch. I'm eating my second bowl in front of the telly watching a man deciding which red, numbered box to open.

I think of Noah. I want to tell him what I did. Show him.

But first I have to get it to her.

I reach for my phone. Contacts. Tommy. New message.

Yo. I need your help. L Send.

The game-show host asks the question, "Deal or no deal?"

I stare at my phone and wait.

EXT. NIGHT Nearly midnight. Dark windows. A silent front door.

I am a maker. I am a builder of ideas.

Tommy's messing with the stereo as I get back into the car.

"Done?" he says.

"Done."

"So what now?"

"Now I sleep."

And we drive back towards town from the other side. The night-time road gets blurry in the distance.