At the age of 3 or 4, I wrote my first poem, Leaf. It was about a leaf on its way to the ground. For my tender years it was fairly advanced since I didn't come into contact with an actual tree until I was at least 5. In fact, I had no idea that leaves grew on trees or even what a tree was. Nor did I have any sense of the changing seasons, raised in a place where nature was limited to flies, rats, worms and weeds. Maybe I saw the tree on TV or in a picture book.

Where does this impulse to create come from? As children, do we all start from the same place only to have the urge knocked out of us? Growing up, it never occurred to me to become an artist, writer or poet. As a working-class child I had no role models or parents with ambitions, either for themselves or for their offspring. Not once did I visit a (free) art gallery or museum. The notion that art could be a job was ludicrous, yet it was my destiny.

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I'm writing this in remembrance of Brian McCardie, who passed away on April 28th at the age of 59. Brian was a celebrated Scottish actor, whom I had the pleasure - and challenge - of working with during my second feature film, Solid Air (2003).

Pleasure because Brian was intelligent, quick-witted and during the process of rehearsals and production, wholly committed to his role as Robert Houston Junior. Challenge because he took no prisoners, forcing me to up my game knowing I had to know the answer to every question he asked - and for which I was/am grateful. He extended the same generosity to his fellow actors, rehearsing off-the-cuff, trying stuff out, coaching.

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Across the world, things are happening that no prayers or pieties can undo, events so terrible they make the dysfunctional nation I call home appear normal. Here on the periphery of Europe, I have the luxury of thinking about writing and filmmaking. On a good day it’s my highest aspiration. On a bad day, it’s a lost cause. I'm not alone. Many in Scotland share the same thought - how can I have a career in the arts or creative industries and not die of disappointment?

For the working classes today there’s no route to becoming a professional anything in the arts, not when the portal to free higher education was slammed in our faces last century. Whether through creativity or patronage, art is once again restored as the plaything of the moneyed, the unpaid interns able to work for free at the expense of those who can't. In this context and in the absence of a living wage, who gets to make art?

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Outside my window the rowan across the street is in full autumn pomp, a flame in the dreichness. Next month migrating waxwings will land as they do every year to steal its fruits. This scene, of nature in balance is reassuring, especially when I can't bear to hear the news: Gaza, Ukraine, Government corruption, culture and gender wars, mass surveillance, poverty and, most frightening, the bitter whirlwind about to be reaped as a consequence of climate change.

With world events so bleak and overwhelming, I cling to small things: the rowan tree, the wildfowl in my local park, music, cooking, writing, photography and making small forward steps on my Tilo film. I also have the welcome distraction of watching films submitted to the 2023 British Independent Film Awards – aka BIFA. This is my fourth year as a voter in what's arguably the most interesting category. It's also a chance to bring my critical skills to the table and help decide the winner.

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