An entire community of aspen trees grows from the shared roots of a single seedling; even when one tree appears in isolation, it is connected to its family network deep beneath the soil. Groves of aspen interweave with ponderosa pine to make up the forests of the southern Rocky Mountains, the backdrop of the small, isolated county in which I was raised in northern New Mexico: The Land of Enchantment. Every Fall, ribbons of gold etch across the mountains as the aspen leaves change. As enchanting as the landscape can be, living in the high-desert mountains of the southwest also comes with the inherent danger of forest fires: my second most prominent memory of home.

When I was 13, I lived through one of the state's largest and most destructive forest fires, named Cerro Grande, after the particular mountain where it began, just north of the little city on the hill it almost destroyed. The government-started controlled burn got out of control, destroyed hundreds of homes, and left a scar on the landscape of our community for years to come. When we returned following the evacuation, the beautiful mountain backdrop of my hometown was left ashen and brittle. It would take years for the pine to make a comeback; the aspen proved to be much more resilient. The effect of fire on a community of aspen—which, with their old, deep roots, are especially enduring of forest fires—is not dissimilar to the effect of fire on a community in a small town. The Cerro Grande would not be the only forest fire to leave its mark on the way in which I explore the suffocation, isolation, and survival inherent to life in a small-town in my work.

I write plays about isolated women whose voices are stymied by their small-town settings and in society at large. Yet, like survival and regrowth after a fire, the women in my plays overcome conflict through reliance on a deeply rooted family or community which, like the aspens, means they are never truly alone. I write small-town, southwestern romanticism. My characters endure frightening and brutal events and emotions—the battle of mental illness; domestic and institutional sexual abuse leading to murder; the guilt and terror surrounding the work of scientists developing nuclear weapons. These events are the fire: the heat and passion with which I write; the scars left on the characters and worlds of my play; the fuel for my characters to work against their isolation and find healing. Against that brutality, I evoke the unique beauty of the mountains and southwest through strong images and metaphors of nature: honeybees emerge from deflated genoise sponge cakes; ill-treated rattlesnakes pose to strike; and returning finally to my hometown, the sprawling enchantment of the aspens.

My history in small-town, southwestern America is at the heart of everything I write. It is a space that feels simultaneously isolated and claustrophobic. Geographical isolation necessitates close-knit community, where everybody knows everybody and all their personal business. At 18, I thought I couldn’t get out fast enough; yet, only a few years later, I left the city for another small mountain town where I chose to plant my artistic roots. Much like I will not live long in a big city, I do not write “big city” plays. In pursuing my MFA, I have moved farther and lived longer away from my family and the southwest than ever before in my life. The farther I am from home, the more I discover my writing connected to my roots. While I may appear to be a solitary aspen, I and my writing are still connected to and sustained by my community, deep beneath the soil.