I have lived in Massachusetts, Louisiana, Texas, New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut (in that order). I was a child actor turned painter. Now playwright and aspiring screenwriter. My father was a Jesuit, and my mom was a nun. Not just a nun, but a nun who had a sold art show in Italy.

The most significant gift life has given me started with my parent's commitment to each other. Unfortunately, my parents' lives have been like an Etch a Sketch. They constantly get shit scribbled all over them and then shake it off. Yet, my parents gave me a purpose—my siblings' lessons in grieving.
The day my brother was killed in a car accident, I walked on the sidewalk, stepped over a puddle, and paused… because I knew I could never go back. That life was over, and the one I just stepped into would be unpredictable and forever altered by his absence. And as grief-stricken as I was, I felt free. I no longer had to be me—a girl raised by her parents in a certain way to be a certain way. I was sad. But unexpectedly, my grief unleashed wonder. Freedom came from my pain. It made me wonder what would happen if… I was more direct, vulnerable, and selfish. Yes—the pain still crawled through my body like a freight train, sometimes to a debilitating degree, but I walked on. More or less insecurity free because nothing was expected. I was undone.
I wrote my first play because I wanted to talk to my brother. I wanted to hear his name recited with hope, not remorse, and it worked. I constructed a story that amplified my grief and exposed my brother as a humorous and shy marine who loved the movie Birdcage, Orange Chicken, Heather, and repelling upside down from a tree. And people watching related to it and him, not because they knew my brother, but because they understood the relationship, the parents, the grief, the games we played, and the mascara I wanted to own. They understood my specificity.
I am an explorer of contradictions. I write heroic characters with credit card debt because I am moved by sad, dirty, complicated, humorous love stories where people make many mistakes but want to recover and get a life.
Being an explorer of the human condition helps me get up in the morning. I still fear loss daily… when my husband walks out the door, my kids get on a bus, or I fall asleep… but putting pen to paper gives my reckless imagination purpose. Writing helped my heart after Jon died by expanding my capacity for joy, and that cycle continues with every story I tell.
The other day when I was shopping for organic blueberries, the fruit dealer handed me a box, then said, “Oh no, this one is squished. Let’s find you another.” And I said, “It’s okay if my blueberries are squished.” He laughed, but it was the truth. Perfection is seductive, but messy has more life.