I write my dreams from both night and day in an effort to expose my darkest desires and shine my most resplendent ideologies. I give voice to my demons by making them characters in my plays. I write about future worlds I imagine inhabiting, about talking cats and listening to the gardeners, about the pang of ambition and never-ending hope, about haunted lighthouses and the importance of slowing, listening and noticing, the tiniest of creatures, those little green inchworms that hang from trees, making their way along the leaves, traveling who knows how far each day.

I feel my role as a writer is equal parts healer, advocate and trouble maker.

I want what I write to spark hurt and hope. I think hurt and hope live hand in hand. Learning how to hurt, the first step of grief, supports a sustainable relationship with hope. If we avoid hurt altogether, we risk losing hope and therefore our humanity. I need humanity to live through my work; to offer opportunities for us to live and dream differently; to reintroduce and emphasize the importance of play; to remind us that magic is real, collective communal care is powerful, and that theatre, whether we acknowledge it or not, is very much a part of our everyday lives.

I seek to queer the narrative by queering the structure of the play itself.

I desire for audiences to walk away from my work full of questions, big feelings and their curiosity sparked enough to explore those questions and big feelings.

I want my work to feel exposed, ugly, messy but also precise at the exact right moment, impressive, hilarious, surprising, gut-wrenching, and true. Above all, I want my work to feel true.