As a playwright, I’m drawn to characters who lead with their hearts—unguarded, emotionally exposed, sometimes to their own peril. I place these characters, primarily older women, in fantastic, heightened worlds: places where the rules of reality bend, where metaphor and whimsy are not just possible but essential. Through these imagined landscapes, I seek something deeply human—something honest.

The theatre is a space of shared illusion, and within that illusion lies an opportunity for disarmament. When an audience enters a world that doesn’t look like their own, their usual defenses soften. They expect spectacle, strangeness, a safe emotional distance. But then something happens: a creature of myth grieves like a child, or a ridiculous scenario rings painfully true. The laughter catches in the throat. The guard drops. Vulnerability sneaks in.

This is where my work lives—on that edge between fantastical and recognition. I use the tools of heightened situations not to escape reality but to reveal it, amplified and reimagined. Emotion is never a side effect; it’s the engine. I write with the belief that wonder opens the door, but it’s empathy that walks the audience through it.

My goal is to create plays that surprise people with their own openness. To make them laugh, then ache. To let them believe they’re watching something “other,” only to find themselves in the heart of it.