I write plays about people whose lives exceed the stories told about them.

My work begins with a person. Sometimes that person is famous. Sometimes they are obscure. Sometimes they have been reduced to a saint, a heretic, a victim, a hero, a diagnosis, a role, a reputation, or a footnote. I am interested in what those labels leave out.

I am drawn to people whose lives resist simplification: mothers, workers, witnesses, rebels, believers, actors, soldiers, ghosts, and the dead who have not finished speaking. I look for contradiction, consequence, courage, humor, grief, faith, failure, and surprise. I am interested in the moment when the official story breaks open and a fuller human being comes into view.

I am not interested in polishing pain into virtue or turning suffering into a lesson. I am interested in the body as a keeper of truth, in memory as labor, and in the ordinary acts by which people survive history: kneading bread, sweeping a floor, calling a cue, witnessing, dying, refusing to disappear.

The work is built for reach. Narration, spoken action, recorded performance, Deaf Artistic Sign Language, captioning, and translation are part of the play’s path to the audience. The question is always practical: how will this story be received?

I write theatre that I hope can be received by everyone. That does not mean everyone will like it, agree with it, approve of it, or feel comfortable inside it. It means the work is made with more than one way in.

I want audiences to encounter the person before the label. I want the room to hold complexity without rushing to solve it. I want the story to reach people clearly enough that they can wrestle with it for themselves.