Artistic Statement
Personal Artistic Statement
I was prompted to write this play after enjoying one too many holiday martinis with friends. We’d invited this couple for a drink at six o’clock, but it was going on ten, and the night had turned revelatory in the way only a vodka-fueled evening coasting on little food, can.
“I killed my mother, you know,” my friend said matter-of-factly.
I choked on a cashew. “Really…? How?”
Eight years prior, she had spoon-fed crushed-up barbiturates mixed with yogurt to her mother at the family home.
Her mom had been diagnosed with a debilitating terminal illness and had no desire to endure the end stages of what promised to be a miserable death. She asked her only daughter to “help” when the time came. “She made her request in the way you might ask someone to pick you up a pint of Haagen-Daz at the corner store,” said my friend.
“Did you tell your brother?” I asked. “No!” she replied, “Absolutely not,” quickly explaining that he was a difficult man who would’ve complicated matters in a way her mother didn’t want. It was to remain their secret.
I instantly recognized this was a compelling premise for a play. Late that night after our friends left, I began online research. Coming from a family with a strong matriarch and several sisters, I mapped out the backstory of the Wolcott clan and imagined the inevitable complications that could ensue.
Shortly thereafter, my own mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Informed that she had a mere two weeks to live she went into hospice care. The average stay is nine to eleven days, however, my mother — always one to buck the odds — ultimately lived for nine months.
During this time, I got to know the nurses, doctors, and hospice volunteers and received an up-close-and-personal education on the process of dying. In the end, my mother had a good death. She was surrounded by her daughters as she took her last breath. It was peaceful and profound, beautiful in its way.
Naturally, this experience added a deeper emotional layer to my writing. As a card-carrying member of the Sandwich Generation, juggling work demands while taking care of both an aging parent and a teenager at the same time, I realized there was an opportunity to make Killing Mom a multi-generational story. It shares not only the pathos of the process of death but also captures its absurdity along the many lighter, unexpected moments.
My mother used to say, “We’re the most functional dysfunctional family I know.” I believe everyone registers somewhere on the spectrum of family dysfunction, but often we’re in denial. Certain life (and death) events can be triggering and ratchet up extra-bad behavior.
It begs the inevitable question, why does the world need this play now?
The fact is, everybody dies. We’ll all come face-to-face with our own mortality. Some of us will expire unexpectedly and dramatically, some will slip away in their sleep, and still others will face a tough diagnosis that ultimately takes their lives.
Killing Mom touches upon our shared humanity, both our fear and grudging acceptance of death; our beliefs about what happens to us after we die; our anxieties about where we fit into our individual family dynamic; our insecurities about being a good mother/daughter/sister/spouse/aunt/fill-in-the-blank; and our universal desire to be remembered at the end of our lives.
In every play, film script, or personal essay I write; and in every documentary I make, my goal is always the same: to tell the human side of a story truthfully and with compassion. I want audience members to be emotionally moved and even surprised by how much they identify with each of the characters they meet in Killing Mom, and to examine their personal viewpoints about end-of-life choices. Long after the curtain falls, I hope they wonder (and maybe even argue a little bit…) about what happens to each of the Wolcott family members next.
I was prompted to write this play after enjoying one too many holiday martinis with friends. We’d invited this couple for a drink at six o’clock, but it was going on ten, and the night had turned revelatory in the way only a vodka-fueled evening coasting on little food, can.
“I killed my mother, you know,” my friend said matter-of-factly.
I choked on a cashew. “Really…? How?”
Eight years prior, she had spoon-fed crushed-up barbiturates mixed with yogurt to her mother at the family home.
Her mom had been diagnosed with a debilitating terminal illness and had no desire to endure the end stages of what promised to be a miserable death. She asked her only daughter to “help” when the time came. “She made her request in the way you might ask someone to pick you up a pint of Haagen-Daz at the corner store,” said my friend.
“Did you tell your brother?” I asked. “No!” she replied, “Absolutely not,” quickly explaining that he was a difficult man who would’ve complicated matters in a way her mother didn’t want. It was to remain their secret.
I instantly recognized this was a compelling premise for a play. Late that night after our friends left, I began online research. Coming from a family with a strong matriarch and several sisters, I mapped out the backstory of the Wolcott clan and imagined the inevitable complications that could ensue.
Shortly thereafter, my own mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Informed that she had a mere two weeks to live she went into hospice care. The average stay is nine to eleven days, however, my mother — always one to buck the odds — ultimately lived for nine months.
During this time, I got to know the nurses, doctors, and hospice volunteers and received an up-close-and-personal education on the process of dying. In the end, my mother had a good death. She was surrounded by her daughters as she took her last breath. It was peaceful and profound, beautiful in its way.
Naturally, this experience added a deeper emotional layer to my writing. As a card-carrying member of the Sandwich Generation, juggling work demands while taking care of both an aging parent and a teenager at the same time, I realized there was an opportunity to make Killing Mom a multi-generational story. It shares not only the pathos of the process of death but also captures its absurdity along the many lighter, unexpected moments.
My mother used to say, “We’re the most functional dysfunctional family I know.” I believe everyone registers somewhere on the spectrum of family dysfunction, but often we’re in denial. Certain life (and death) events can be triggering and ratchet up extra-bad behavior.
It begs the inevitable question, why does the world need this play now?
The fact is, everybody dies. We’ll all come face-to-face with our own mortality. Some of us will expire unexpectedly and dramatically, some will slip away in their sleep, and still others will face a tough diagnosis that ultimately takes their lives.
Killing Mom touches upon our shared humanity, both our fear and grudging acceptance of death; our beliefs about what happens to us after we die; our anxieties about where we fit into our individual family dynamic; our insecurities about being a good mother/daughter/sister/spouse/aunt/fill-in-the-blank; and our universal desire to be remembered at the end of our lives.
In every play, film script, or personal essay I write; and in every documentary I make, my goal is always the same: to tell the human side of a story truthfully and with compassion. I want audience members to be emotionally moved and even surprised by how much they identify with each of the characters they meet in Killing Mom, and to examine their personal viewpoints about end-of-life choices. Long after the curtain falls, I hope they wonder (and maybe even argue a little bit…) about what happens to each of the Wolcott family members next.
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Megan Smith-Harris
Artistic Statement
Personal Artistic Statement
I was prompted to write this play after enjoying one too many holiday martinis with friends. We’d invited this couple for a drink at six o’clock, but it was going on ten, and the night had turned revelatory in the way only a vodka-fueled evening coasting on little food, can.
“I killed my mother, you know,” my friend said matter-of-factly.
I choked on a cashew. “Really…? How?”
Eight years prior, she had spoon-fed crushed-up barbiturates mixed with yogurt to her mother at the family home.
Her mom had been diagnosed with a debilitating terminal illness and had no desire to endure the end stages of what promised to be a miserable death. She asked her only daughter to “help” when the time came. “She made her request in the way you might ask someone to pick you up a pint of Haagen-Daz at the corner store,” said my friend.
“Did you tell your brother?” I asked. “No!” she replied, “Absolutely not,” quickly explaining that he was a difficult man who would’ve complicated matters in a way her mother didn’t want. It was to remain their secret.
I instantly recognized this was a compelling premise for a play. Late that night after our friends left, I began online research. Coming from a family with a strong matriarch and several sisters, I mapped out the backstory of the Wolcott clan and imagined the inevitable complications that could ensue.
Shortly thereafter, my own mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Informed that she had a mere two weeks to live she went into hospice care. The average stay is nine to eleven days, however, my mother — always one to buck the odds — ultimately lived for nine months.
During this time, I got to know the nurses, doctors, and hospice volunteers and received an up-close-and-personal education on the process of dying. In the end, my mother had a good death. She was surrounded by her daughters as she took her last breath. It was peaceful and profound, beautiful in its way.
Naturally, this experience added a deeper emotional layer to my writing. As a card-carrying member of the Sandwich Generation, juggling work demands while taking care of both an aging parent and a teenager at the same time, I realized there was an opportunity to make Killing Mom a multi-generational story. It shares not only the pathos of the process of death but also captures its absurdity along the many lighter, unexpected moments.
My mother used to say, “We’re the most functional dysfunctional family I know.” I believe everyone registers somewhere on the spectrum of family dysfunction, but often we’re in denial. Certain life (and death) events can be triggering and ratchet up extra-bad behavior.
It begs the inevitable question, why does the world need this play now?
The fact is, everybody dies. We’ll all come face-to-face with our own mortality. Some of us will expire unexpectedly and dramatically, some will slip away in their sleep, and still others will face a tough diagnosis that ultimately takes their lives.
Killing Mom touches upon our shared humanity, both our fear and grudging acceptance of death; our beliefs about what happens to us after we die; our anxieties about where we fit into our individual family dynamic; our insecurities about being a good mother/daughter/sister/spouse/aunt/fill-in-the-blank; and our universal desire to be remembered at the end of our lives.
In every play, film script, or personal essay I write; and in every documentary I make, my goal is always the same: to tell the human side of a story truthfully and with compassion. I want audience members to be emotionally moved and even surprised by how much they identify with each of the characters they meet in Killing Mom, and to examine their personal viewpoints about end-of-life choices. Long after the curtain falls, I hope they wonder (and maybe even argue a little bit…) about what happens to each of the Wolcott family members next.
I was prompted to write this play after enjoying one too many holiday martinis with friends. We’d invited this couple for a drink at six o’clock, but it was going on ten, and the night had turned revelatory in the way only a vodka-fueled evening coasting on little food, can.
“I killed my mother, you know,” my friend said matter-of-factly.
I choked on a cashew. “Really…? How?”
Eight years prior, she had spoon-fed crushed-up barbiturates mixed with yogurt to her mother at the family home.
Her mom had been diagnosed with a debilitating terminal illness and had no desire to endure the end stages of what promised to be a miserable death. She asked her only daughter to “help” when the time came. “She made her request in the way you might ask someone to pick you up a pint of Haagen-Daz at the corner store,” said my friend.
“Did you tell your brother?” I asked. “No!” she replied, “Absolutely not,” quickly explaining that he was a difficult man who would’ve complicated matters in a way her mother didn’t want. It was to remain their secret.
I instantly recognized this was a compelling premise for a play. Late that night after our friends left, I began online research. Coming from a family with a strong matriarch and several sisters, I mapped out the backstory of the Wolcott clan and imagined the inevitable complications that could ensue.
Shortly thereafter, my own mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Informed that she had a mere two weeks to live she went into hospice care. The average stay is nine to eleven days, however, my mother — always one to buck the odds — ultimately lived for nine months.
During this time, I got to know the nurses, doctors, and hospice volunteers and received an up-close-and-personal education on the process of dying. In the end, my mother had a good death. She was surrounded by her daughters as she took her last breath. It was peaceful and profound, beautiful in its way.
Naturally, this experience added a deeper emotional layer to my writing. As a card-carrying member of the Sandwich Generation, juggling work demands while taking care of both an aging parent and a teenager at the same time, I realized there was an opportunity to make Killing Mom a multi-generational story. It shares not only the pathos of the process of death but also captures its absurdity along the many lighter, unexpected moments.
My mother used to say, “We’re the most functional dysfunctional family I know.” I believe everyone registers somewhere on the spectrum of family dysfunction, but often we’re in denial. Certain life (and death) events can be triggering and ratchet up extra-bad behavior.
It begs the inevitable question, why does the world need this play now?
The fact is, everybody dies. We’ll all come face-to-face with our own mortality. Some of us will expire unexpectedly and dramatically, some will slip away in their sleep, and still others will face a tough diagnosis that ultimately takes their lives.
Killing Mom touches upon our shared humanity, both our fear and grudging acceptance of death; our beliefs about what happens to us after we die; our anxieties about where we fit into our individual family dynamic; our insecurities about being a good mother/daughter/sister/spouse/aunt/fill-in-the-blank; and our universal desire to be remembered at the end of our lives.
In every play, film script, or personal essay I write; and in every documentary I make, my goal is always the same: to tell the human side of a story truthfully and with compassion. I want audience members to be emotionally moved and even surprised by how much they identify with each of the characters they meet in Killing Mom, and to examine their personal viewpoints about end-of-life choices. Long after the curtain falls, I hope they wonder (and maybe even argue a little bit…) about what happens to each of the Wolcott family members next.