I have expectations for myself, for my writing regimen, for keeping my head on straight, but none for the void into which I send my scripts. I have felt the rewards of the magic circle that is sometimes completed between the writer and the audience. I know that if I want to feel it again, I must write more stuff, send it out into that void, wait, write some more, rinse, repeat.

My views haven’t changed much since I started writing plays full-time, twelve years ago. I’m fascinated by the endless variety and tender paradoxes of human behavior. I am also drawn to those moments of being when a coincidence can open the door to a room full of profound truth.

The difficulty, however, if I want to tell a tale on stage to strangers, is that I have to convince them that those people moving around in front of them, in that large room with an aisle and rows of seats and a snack bar, are real, and that it’s worth sticking around to see what happens to them. As well, I want the audience to leave the theater feeling jostled, either because the story was relevant to their lives and experience, or because it was fascinating, and worth thinking and talking about after the fact.

I start the day early, working in local cafes that are regular haunts. I find the ambient noise stimulating, rather than distracting, at least for the start of my day. Late morning or early afternoon (depending on how well the writing is going), I come home, take a break to eat, and then print out what I've written. I'm home from that point on, working on revisions and the myriad of related activities that are easier at a desk with files handy (e.g., submissions). Sometimes I work at home in the evening, after dinner with my wife, usually if I'm on a roll or have a tight deadline.

I write about the lonely people, who struggle to feel relevant much of the time, but who manage to find some joy along the way and to continue looking for “matches, struck unexpectedly in the dark.”