“I contain multitudes,” multiple selves. And you do, too. I have a little voice in my head that despises my body and my insufficient success. It seeks to devour my weakness. I have another that seeks to make my shame, anger, and fear the definition of who I am in the world. I have another that is only concerned with attractive shoes. All of this is difficult to hold in one body. I am sure you know what I mean. I write plays to grapple with the opposing forces I hold within, thereby – I hope, I pray – encouraging others to discover peace amidst their own multiple selves. These opposing forces can only be looked at squarely when you make room for silence in your day. So I turn off my phone. I write every day, with my phone off. Some days nothing comes, so I hold the space open, and this may be the most important part of the endeavor. Good plays come from the space, not the chatter. My goal is to approach this lifelong writing process with courage, radical inquisitiveness, and patience, while sharing the results with audiences, students, collaborators, and anyone that wants to get coffee and talk. I write and teach to create space in my life and work in which others can grow. It took me a long time to come to that. My first play was written when I was a dyslexic juvenile delinquent. It won an award. It was the only thing for which I had ever been given an award. For the next decade, my goal as a writer was to prove to my internal devouring voice that I am worthy and special. Years go by. I settle in Philadelphia. My plays are produced in the Fringe. I work a series of terrible day jobs. I become a Teamster. I get laid off. I become increasingly defensive of my writing. I perceive criticisms of my writing as criticisms of me. I get laid off again. I finally get a play produced by an Equity company. Critics don’t like it; ticket sales plummet. I get laid off again. I have a series of panic attacks. The devouring voice transforms into a fire that overtakes my entire body. I open the fridge and sit on the kitchen floor in my boxer shorts. In order to get off my kitchen floor, I am forced to discover the space around the chatter. I begin, little by little, day by day to live and write in that space. Years go by. I become more curious, less closed. I’m able to hear criticisms of my writing. I become a better writer. I reach out to other writers. I discover I have students. I discover I have things to tell them. A good play liberates us from our internal chatter. The play is an ancient form designed for just this purpose. It pits multiple truths against each other. It allows our devouring, fire-inducing voices – the furies – a say, but not the final say. Our binary mind, addicted to choosing sides, dissolves in the face of a good play. This is sacred work. We are at a time in our nation and on our planet when chattering fire-inducing voices threaten to devour us all. If and when we find the courage to stop trying to obliterate our fears, shut them out, deport them, we stop doing that to others as well.