I will say this; I have an ear for dialogue.  Ask anyone who has had the unfortunate experience of being held hostage as I rifle off speeches from my favorite movies, books and plays.  Given my passion for the spoken word, one might anticipate a post-secondary education in the arts.  But, well, you know, it was the 80’s.

Nice girls…smart girls…were (okay I’ll say it) pressured into the world of power ties, shoulder pads and high heels.  I watched it happen to my girl friends all around me.  One wanted a degree in interior design, one wanted to pursue psychology, and still another craved the world of visual arts.  All four of us graduated with honors – in accounting.  Honest to god.

One afternoon years ago, as I nursed a four-dollar cup of coffee at Starbuck’s, I overheard an employee telling his fellow barista a story.  He concluded by saying, “…and then this guy goes, do you know where the Men’s Wearhouse is?  And I was like, dude, do you even know you’re in Scottsdale?”  Brilliant.  I was hooked all over again.

My transition was not a graceful one. Not only did I come to playwriting through the back door, I sort of had to break a window to get inside.  I didn’t have a formal education in any kind of writing, let alone playwriting, and I didn’t care.  I wanted to feel the fear of people shouting over each other, the tenderness of love lost, and the intensity of uncomfortable silences.  I wanted to write for the stage.