I seek to follow my guiding constellation of authenticity, courage, and impossibility.

I write for an American theater that I want to believe exists someplace that I just haven’t found yet. A fierce, fearless, equal playing field that heavily features female and minority voices writing politically-relevant, radically inclusive theater that does not fear subscribers or negative reviews or pieces of large-scale ambition.

I write for a theater that says fuck yes to a new play with a cast of 30.
I write for a theater that says of course when I ask for a cast that looks like our world, and not a washed-out, aging white version of that.
I write for a theater that happens in the room with the audience and doesn’t rely on a fake imaginary wall between the stage and the performers.
I write for a theater that is dangerous and scares the shit out of the ruling class.
I write for a theater of abandoned spaces and warehouses and exceptional design.
I write for the actors who have not been given enough leading roles.
I write for the stranger that held my hand in a dark room when I saw Blasted.
I write to keep myself sane in a world losing her mind.
I write because the flooded coastal cities and the Northwestern mega fires I imagined three years ago have already come to pass. I write from and to assuage my deepest fears. I cannot surrender to this dark world without putting up my fists clenching my pen. Without taking a swing.
I write for my nieces and my nephew and the future I pray they inherit.