Whenever I write, I think back to my first time on the Rock 'n' Roller Coaster at Disney World. Before I got on, I was terrified. All I knew was my first impression of screaming people being rocketed down a dark tunnel at intense speeds. When I stepped inside the car, that fear was suddenly replaced with an anticipatory excitement. Then, I was suddenly blasted off into the dark. In that instant, all my fear washed away for good and was replaced with smiling, then cheering.

Living in the world today is a lot like my first impression of that ride. Nothing is certain and fear is dominant. Fear of sudden disaster, of bigotry empowered, of the agonizing descent toward a future where the only guarantee is entropy. I write to combat that fear like a superhero fights their arch-nemesis. I create explosions of sense-shattering action and pepper the scene with bombastic dialogue. And through it all, I stitch cultural touch points together like a theatrical Frankenstein's Monster. We Didn't Start The Fire contains all of this in droves, with smart-mouthed angsty teens, accidental murders covered up by literal fires, and a dance sequence that diffuses tension over whether Ronald Reagan is actually a Bond villain. But with any good battle, there is collateral damage. None of my characters are the same following their conflicts and by the time they catch their breath, the audience won’t be either.

I write for that transition from 0 to 60. The feeling that puts your stomach where your throat is, even as you laugh. It is in that shift that one also happens inside my audience. A divide is bridged between simply observing and truly knowing. For instance, Never Meet Your Heroes is a mythological epic with a modern bent that is a trojan horse for metatextual critique. While this could easily become overambitious, my writing breaks open the universal humanity that exists at the heart of the topic and with it, transforms any uncertainty into joy. The audience is strapped in for the ride from the instant Hera welcomes them to Jason's final plea for them to find their freedom. In What Do You Do With A *bleep*ing Nazi, the audience is addressed as if they were the Narrator's therapist and as the story unfurls, we learn just how in need of help he truly is. These moments of discovery feel like being thrown back into a seat, flying down a tunnel with the air whizzing by. We are shocked awake, but grinning the whole time with a newfound understanding of something different.

If I could capture that feeling in a bottle and deliver it to everyone, I would. My Jewish upbringing taught me the value of tzedakah, giving. This applies to both my art and my process. While there is the common stock image of the writer, typing all alone, I seek to share my process with those around me. It has been the discerning eye of a director, the focused questions of an actor, and the expertise of a dramaturg that has unlocked elements of my plays that have eluded my own mind. Whether it be an official workshop or a simple discussion, I consider both to be sharing the creation of a new work with friends. By openly sharing my process with others, I believe it serves to make the act of theater-making better and more inclusive. This is an extension of the most important part of Judaism for me, tikkun olam, repairing the world. I write to give others laughter, shock, and most importantly empathy, to alleviate their fear and in doing so, hopefully make the world a little bit better, In a time where the future looks just like that pitch-black, uncertain tunnel at the Rock n’ Roller Coaster, I write to take people blasting forward through the darkness on a ride they will want to get on again and again.