When I first tried to recruit Emma for 20/20, I told my boss something I still stand by: people just talk to her. They hand over their stories, and she almost mischievously turns them into something you can’t stop watching. She described her approach as “hiding the vegetables”, wrapping the good-for-you information in secret sauce so the audience enjoys every bite and only later realises they’ve learned something. That’s Emma. Substance, smuggled in with style.

In this newsletter we often talk about reinvention as reversion – the idea that, with a bit of wisdom and a lot of nerve, we circle back to what we wanted in the first place. Emma is a live example. On paper, she pivoted from frontline journalism to screenwriting and film. In reality, she returned to her first love: performance, comedy and story.

Emma grew up steeped in stagecraft. Her mum danced in the West End; her dad sang and even blagged a James Bond stunt gig in the 60s. Emma did speech and drama, flirted with dance, and dreamed of London but, like so many of us, told herself an unhelpful story: “I’m not good-looking enough to be a lead.” So she chose English, found radio, and discovered she could both write and talk.

From Love Songs till Midnight to Radio Sport to TV3, Campbell Live and, eventually, Europe Correspondent in London. Behind the CV were habits forged in news: speed, problem-solving, relentless forward motion. Those would later prove useful in film. First, though, London asked something else of her.

Emma arrived in late 2015. The Chris Cairns (match fixing) trial. The Rugby World Cup. Then Bataclan (terror attack). A drumbeat of terror and tragedy that never seemed to stop. She did the job brilliantly, but it took something with it. “I don’t want to always focus on the bad,” she told me. The itch for change grew louder than the comfort of the familiar.

Enter Makez Rikweda, the producer she sat next to on a science and tech show in 2019. One question changed everything: “Where would you rather be? What would you rather be doing?” They swapped ideas. Covid hit. McKees wrote two short films and asked Emma to help make them – with one condition: Emma then had to write her own.

Draft four felt good. Makez smiled and said, “Great, come back after draft ten.” That’s the kind of partner you need: the one who believes in you and refuses to let you off easy.

Emma resists the “brave” label. To her, moving to London or jumping into film wasn’t courage; it was necessity. “If I didn’t, I’d go a bit insane.” Still, there’s a lesson in how she reframes fear. When she came out in her late 30s, a friend asked: would you rather be uncomfortable for a short time, or for the rest of your life? That question now guides her creative choices. The discomfort of the attempt is temporary; the regret of not trying lasts.

She also rejects “imposter syndrome”. You are the stories you tell yourself. If the old story says you’re “just” a news journalist or “from a little place in New Zealand”, write a better story. And – crucially – surround yourself with people who won’t let you shrink. Makez’ mantra for their feature push: “No shame.” Knock on doors. Follow up. Walk-and-talk with sales agents in Cannes if that’s what it takes. Increase your luck surface area.

Emma didn’t leave journalism behind; she brought its muscles with her. Organisation. Calm in chaos. The ability to solve problems at speed and keep people moving in the same direction. On early shorts, she was producer and runner, script and sandwiches. She’s also learned to talk about her work without the apologetic Kiwi qualifier. Not arrogance – ownership. If you’re going to write and direct, you must understand producing, IP, contracts and the business. Creativity is a craft; film is an industry.

Habits do need unlearning. News trains you to perfect one sentence before writing the next. Scripts demand flow first, refinement later. Long form wants you to sit in uncertainty, not sprint through it. That’s a different kind of stamina.

By day, Emma’s at BBC Studios making branded content, her first real exposure to clients, and a useful education in persuasion without the blunt newsroom email. By night (and weekends), she’s building the creative slate:

Late to the Party, her comedy short, is becoming a TV pilot, with a series arc in development.

A feature film, primarily written by Makez, is in active development, with an eye on the right co-pro partners and markets ahead.

The British Film Institute has brought them into a development pathway, opening doors to workshops in producing and directing – the business knowledge that sustains the art.

It’s the classic “side hustle” that actually eats most of your mental energy in the best way. She feels reinvigorated.

What I took from our chat

Peel the onion. The older we get, the more layers we accumulate: roles, expectations, mortgages, myths about who we are. Reinvention is the work of peeling back, not bolting on.

Borrow conviction. Find your Makez the person who kicks you to draft ten and walks beside you when the room feels too big.

Own the room. New Zealand humility is a virtue until it silences you. If you’ve done the work, say so.

Ship something. The number-one filter in film (and life) is: have you made anything? Late to the Party exists. That matters more than any “someday”.

Make your own luck. More conversations, more doors, more follow ups. The surface area grows; so does the luck.

If you’re curious about Emma’s short, keep an eye out – she’s planning to pop Late to the Party on YouTube. In the meantime, I’ll keep cheering her on from far too many time zones away. It’s been a privilege to watch a friend “pivot” by coming home to herself, vegetables hidden, secret sauce and all.