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I make theater on the page.

I’m interested, from way back, in the way ritual shows up in our lives. I’m interested, since forever, in people and their stories.

Deeper than that, I’m most interested in our shared humanity. In the specificity of you that is so achingly unique, I look at it and see myself.

I’m interested in the fact that I love you. And you are not alone.

I make art to remind you and to remind me of that over and over again.

I write now—now that I have a child—much more than before. I love words, and I love punctuation, and I love structures of sentences and phrases, too. I am interested in all the things they can do—and in all the ways they fall short.

And yet.

I can never quite get away from the sound. I love words the way a theater artist loves words. I want the plosives to pop, the pitches to take you on a journey, the spaces to hold you still for just a moment. Or longer.

I write words to be read out loud. It’s not quite spoken word. It’s not a play.

I love the big, bold statements that get our attention with their fireworks and sheer size—the book, the opus, the masterwork. Yes, of course I love those.

But these days, I am obsessed with the tiny projects. The small acts of committing a person to paper and sharing that. Maybe in real handwriting. Perhaps out loud.

I am interested in the way those small and tiny creations add up. In each of those parts and the sum of those parts. In each of our parts and the sum of our parts.