Every time I write a play, I excavate myself. This is what makes up my heart, bits of my kidneys, my right lung, this is a cancer that’s eating me, this is my blood, these are the bones that hold me up- take them, I need them, I need you to have them. Every character I write is me. They’re all contradictory and they’re all strangers. I need theatre to give these mismatched parts a place to live and settle and be themselves. Whatever happens on stage after that, happens. Sometimes it’s sad, or ugly. Sometimes it’s religious or profane or joyful. At the end of every show, I am a new version of myself; whatever is on stage is sorted and comfortable now. I’m like a starfish cutting off limbs; all my plays stop being me and grow into their own weird little monsters. I want someone with elbows or kidneys or a freckle on their right hand to see what bits of me I put on stage and compare, “Are we the same?” And I hope we are.