Thanks for the opportunity to share about my artistic practice, and how and why I write plays. I’m continually humbled by this gorgeous, enigmatic, changing and irreplaceable artform. I approach my writing the way I used to teach dance, not so much as a “fine art” but as a lived experience. When I’m writing, I feel it, the way I used to when I was dancing, in my bones, while holding the action on the page in my mind, the way I held movement, as a choreographer, piecing a new phrase, or theme or variation, envisioning that first hazy sketch, and developing it to completion. There’s music in each moment along the way, in the sharp notes and dissonance, the wobbles — And I like to spend time there. I’m comfortable in that wilderness, that gray area, the fog. The two decades I spent dedicated to creating more inclusive social, emotional and cognitive learning modalities for children with disabilities honed my self-discipline and sense of curiosity, and steeled my belief that in order to function, collaborations must stem from trust and mutual respect. Founding and directing a nonprofit, before I ever wrote a play, affords me daily gratitude for the support I now receive, to learn and grow as an artist. I remain open, humble and energized. After two decades, I stepped away from leading a nonprofit, and declared to my partner and kids that I was going to take a How-To-Write-A-10-Minute-Play class at my local theatre. They shrugged. But carving out that time each week to begin this new relationship with writing was life-changing. As a lifelong dancer, whose creaky knees and grumpy back and straining vocal cords made teaching more difficult, I discovered a new voice in the playwriting world. I could write plays, not despite who I was, or what I’d done, but because of it. And I am grateful every day, for learning and for the chance to make some small contributions to the field.