My plays live under your bed

But don’t worry!
It’s nice down here
Surprisingly roomy
Ignore the pot of dead marigolds in the corner
And the mannequin
No, it’s not drooling

Although, we are quite hungry
Please send food
I’m trying to eat less meat
But the plays love blood
A well placed curse (word or hex)
They’ve got sharp teeth

My plays often explore loss in some form, and what happens to who or what’s left behind
I write a lot about grief and identity
Cycles of violence
Bureaucracy
Hope

Hope that maybe one day we’ll finally find the way out from underneath your bed
We are somewhat lost, frankly
Again, it’s surprisingly roomy down here
It's bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside
Help
We are running out of time
The plays’ navigational capabilities only go so far on their own
Without you?
Without an audience?
They’re nothing
They are inanimate things
I anthropomorphized them because I am lost and scared and alone underneath your bed

So you being down here too?
It means everything

Come play with us.


A SIDE-THOUGHT:
Every story we ever tell together
Will never be done the exact same way with the exact same people ever again
It becomes uniquely ours

I think that’s something quite special.