Artistic Statement
I lived in the same house in northeast Texas for the first eighteen years of my life. .I was a Texan first and foremost, as much as I hated the thought. I was a scared little queer girl with creative energy brimming from my every orifice (sounds gross, yes– and it certainly can be!), and so the idea of living and dying in the same Texas town sounded like the newly-invented tenth circle of hell. For some reason, in my mind, leaving would make things different.
Once I moved to Chicago for college, I proved myself right. Things were different, because I was finally forced to confront the thing I was so reluctant to admit: after six years of longing to be somewhere else, all I wanted was a plate of proper Tex-Mex and to lay down in that field of bluebonnets again. Because though Texas was, at times, unkind to me (the girl who knew from age 9 that she’d never marry a man), it was the only thing I’d ever known. And I missed it.
That was enough to give me an identity crisis right there. How could I give the name ‘home’ to something I felt the need to escape? I find comfort in knowing exactly where I fit, but now, realizing the multitudes I contain means I have to decide where I belong. And it’s hard.
There’s something about the human need to belong that has always deeply resonated with me (as a queer autistic woman from the American South), and that bleeds into my writing just as most things tend to do. I write about things– people– that don’t belong, and how they very often actually do. I write because I’ve always been fascinated with human behavior, and because I love exploring the most honest type of character: the deeply flawed one who always believes they’re doing the right thing. Because they are most of us, most of the time, I think.
I write because this universe contains too many multitudes for me to willingly leave them unexplored. Because the things I explore in my work are so complex, and often morally grey, I can’t prescribe the emotion people ‘should feel’ after engaging with my work. And frankly, if I wanted a universal response to my work, I’d take pictures of cute dogs for a living. Instead, I hope that an audience at my play chooses to engage with their emotions– maybe even think about why we feel the way we do– and understand that their willingness to feel is a necessary part of the play. Maybe the most important part.
Once I moved to Chicago for college, I proved myself right. Things were different, because I was finally forced to confront the thing I was so reluctant to admit: after six years of longing to be somewhere else, all I wanted was a plate of proper Tex-Mex and to lay down in that field of bluebonnets again. Because though Texas was, at times, unkind to me (the girl who knew from age 9 that she’d never marry a man), it was the only thing I’d ever known. And I missed it.
That was enough to give me an identity crisis right there. How could I give the name ‘home’ to something I felt the need to escape? I find comfort in knowing exactly where I fit, but now, realizing the multitudes I contain means I have to decide where I belong. And it’s hard.
There’s something about the human need to belong that has always deeply resonated with me (as a queer autistic woman from the American South), and that bleeds into my writing just as most things tend to do. I write about things– people– that don’t belong, and how they very often actually do. I write because I’ve always been fascinated with human behavior, and because I love exploring the most honest type of character: the deeply flawed one who always believes they’re doing the right thing. Because they are most of us, most of the time, I think.
I write because this universe contains too many multitudes for me to willingly leave them unexplored. Because the things I explore in my work are so complex, and often morally grey, I can’t prescribe the emotion people ‘should feel’ after engaging with my work. And frankly, if I wanted a universal response to my work, I’d take pictures of cute dogs for a living. Instead, I hope that an audience at my play chooses to engage with their emotions– maybe even think about why we feel the way we do– and understand that their willingness to feel is a necessary part of the play. Maybe the most important part.
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Grace Everett
Artistic Statement
I lived in the same house in northeast Texas for the first eighteen years of my life. .I was a Texan first and foremost, as much as I hated the thought. I was a scared little queer girl with creative energy brimming from my every orifice (sounds gross, yes– and it certainly can be!), and so the idea of living and dying in the same Texas town sounded like the newly-invented tenth circle of hell. For some reason, in my mind, leaving would make things different.
Once I moved to Chicago for college, I proved myself right. Things were different, because I was finally forced to confront the thing I was so reluctant to admit: after six years of longing to be somewhere else, all I wanted was a plate of proper Tex-Mex and to lay down in that field of bluebonnets again. Because though Texas was, at times, unkind to me (the girl who knew from age 9 that she’d never marry a man), it was the only thing I’d ever known. And I missed it.
That was enough to give me an identity crisis right there. How could I give the name ‘home’ to something I felt the need to escape? I find comfort in knowing exactly where I fit, but now, realizing the multitudes I contain means I have to decide where I belong. And it’s hard.
There’s something about the human need to belong that has always deeply resonated with me (as a queer autistic woman from the American South), and that bleeds into my writing just as most things tend to do. I write about things– people– that don’t belong, and how they very often actually do. I write because I’ve always been fascinated with human behavior, and because I love exploring the most honest type of character: the deeply flawed one who always believes they’re doing the right thing. Because they are most of us, most of the time, I think.
I write because this universe contains too many multitudes for me to willingly leave them unexplored. Because the things I explore in my work are so complex, and often morally grey, I can’t prescribe the emotion people ‘should feel’ after engaging with my work. And frankly, if I wanted a universal response to my work, I’d take pictures of cute dogs for a living. Instead, I hope that an audience at my play chooses to engage with their emotions– maybe even think about why we feel the way we do– and understand that their willingness to feel is a necessary part of the play. Maybe the most important part.
Once I moved to Chicago for college, I proved myself right. Things were different, because I was finally forced to confront the thing I was so reluctant to admit: after six years of longing to be somewhere else, all I wanted was a plate of proper Tex-Mex and to lay down in that field of bluebonnets again. Because though Texas was, at times, unkind to me (the girl who knew from age 9 that she’d never marry a man), it was the only thing I’d ever known. And I missed it.
That was enough to give me an identity crisis right there. How could I give the name ‘home’ to something I felt the need to escape? I find comfort in knowing exactly where I fit, but now, realizing the multitudes I contain means I have to decide where I belong. And it’s hard.
There’s something about the human need to belong that has always deeply resonated with me (as a queer autistic woman from the American South), and that bleeds into my writing just as most things tend to do. I write about things– people– that don’t belong, and how they very often actually do. I write because I’ve always been fascinated with human behavior, and because I love exploring the most honest type of character: the deeply flawed one who always believes they’re doing the right thing. Because they are most of us, most of the time, I think.
I write because this universe contains too many multitudes for me to willingly leave them unexplored. Because the things I explore in my work are so complex, and often morally grey, I can’t prescribe the emotion people ‘should feel’ after engaging with my work. And frankly, if I wanted a universal response to my work, I’d take pictures of cute dogs for a living. Instead, I hope that an audience at my play chooses to engage with their emotions– maybe even think about why we feel the way we do– and understand that their willingness to feel is a necessary part of the play. Maybe the most important part.