The Play follows Harry as he survives a violent childhood and devastating loss, then transforms his grief into a grassroots, youth-led musical movement that fights bullying and bigotry. What made you choose a story that refuses to soften the early trauma and what did you want readers to understand by feeling how raw it is?

I chose not to soften the trauma because too many young people are living it every single day — and society often prefers not to look at it.

Knife carrying. Gang grooming. Bullying that doesn’t end at the school gates because it follows them home through their phones. Loneliness that sits quietly in bedrooms behind closed doors. Mental health struggles masked by bravado. Children vaping at 12. Drinking at 13. Being pulled toward drugs because someone older made it look like belonging.

When we dilute trauma in fiction, we dilute reality. And reality for many young people is not polished — it is raw, frightening and confusing.

I grew up around violence and instability. I saw what happens when pain is ignored. But it became painfully personal when my own son experienced bullying. As a parent, that is your worst nightmare. You feel helpless. Angry. Protective. You replay every conversation wondering what you missed. I realised then that bullying is not just a “school issue.” It is a mental health crisis. It can plant seeds of shame, isolation and self-doubt that last for years.

I wanted readers — especially adults — to feel that discomfort. To feel the claustrophobia Harry feels. The fear. The grief. The injustice. Because when you feel it, you cannot ignore it.

Harry’s trauma is not there for shock value. It is there so young readers who are suffering quietly know this: you are not weak, you are not alone, and your pain is real. And adults reading it — teachers, youth workers, police, parents — must understand that behaviour often comes from unprocessed trauma.

When a young person carries a knife, it is rarely because they want to harm. It is often because they are afraid.

If we do not confront the rawness, we will never address the root.

Several “villain” characters are given room for accountability and change. What did you want to say about harm, systems, and redemption through Mathew Jones and Liam Harris?

Mathew and Liam are not monsters. They are products of broken systems, poor role models, peer pressure and unaddressed trauma.

That does not excuse their behaviour — but it explains it.

In my work around youth intervention, I have seen the pattern repeatedly. A young person bullies because they were bullied. They join a gang because they crave protection. They intimidate because it makes them feel powerful in a world where they feel small.

Society is quick to label young people as “thugs,” “feral,” or “lost causes.” But labels don’t rehabilitate — opportunity does.

Through Mathew and Liam, I wanted to show that accountability and redemption can exist in the same space. They must face what they have done. They must feel the weight of it. But they must also be offered a door to walk through.

That door, in The Play, is the stage.

When young people rehearse together, write lyrics together, perform together — something shifts. Hierarchies dissolve. Identity changes. The “bully” becomes the backing vocalist. The “troublemaker” becomes the lead guitarist. The “quiet kid” becomes the lyricist whose words move an audience to tears.

Redemption is not weakness. It is strength.

If we want to reduce gangs, knife carrying and youth violence, we cannot rely only on enforcement. We need creative alternatives that give young people status, belonging and identity without crime.

Mathew and Liam represent hope — not naïve hope — but structured, accountable second chances.

The book blends prose, lyrics, and a behind-the-scenes build of a show. How did you approach writing the songs so they carry emotional weight?

Every song in The Play was written from lived emotion.

I didn’t approach the lyrics as entertainment. I approached them as conversations young people are often too afraid to say out loud.

When I write a song like “Laura’s Song,” or a redemption anthem within the show, I ask:
What is the child who is being bullied thinking at 2 am?
What is the young boy pressured to carry a knife really feeling?
What is the girl being cyberbullied scrolling through comments in silence?

The songs had to feel honest — not polished pop lyrics, but confessions.

Music reaches places that speeches cannot. A workshop discussion may open dialogue, but a song can unlock tears. It bypasses ego. It allows young people to sing what they cannot say.

Structurally, I ensured that each lyric serves a psychological purpose:

•      Validation – “You are not crazy for feeling this.”
•     Accountability – “We must own what we’ve done.”
•     Belonging – “You are part of something bigger.”
•     Empowerment – “You can choose a different path.”

When young people perform these songs, they are not just acting — they are reclaiming their voice.

And in a world where cyberbullying silences and gangs recruit through fear, voice is power.

What do you most hope teens (and the adults who work with them) take away from Harry’s choices?

For teens, I hope they see that pain does not have to define them.

Harry could have chosen anger. He could have chosen revenge. He could have chosen gangs. Instead, he chose leadership. He chose art. He chose to build something.

I want young people to understand that vulnerability is not weakness. Asking for help is not weakness. Walking away from a gang is not weakness.

It is courage.

For adults — teachers, parents, police officers, youth workers — I hope they understand that prevention must be creative, not reactive.

When we only respond after violence, we are too late.

Young people need:

•      Safe spaces.
•      Mentors.
•      Creative outlets.
•      Structured belonging.
•      Mental health support without stigma.

When my son experienced bullying, it shook me deeply. I realised that if it could happen in my family, it is happening everywhere. I did not want to complain about the system. I wanted to build something that changes it.

The arts are not a luxury. They are intervention.

When a child is rehearsing, they are not on a street corner.
When they are writing lyrics, they are not scrolling hate.
When they are performing, they are not vaping behind a bike shed.

They are seen. Heard. Valued.

If The Play inspires even one young person to drop a knife, leave a gang, or speak up about bullying — then it has done its job.

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