When I write, sometimes my words content themselves with staying on the page. The page can often be a world with space enough for words to reach the four corners. In these cases, if I am thinking a smaller thought, I write an essay; if I am grappling with a larger thought, I write a book.

Sometimes when I write, my words are more demanding. Then the page seems flat, more like a cell than a world. In times like these, my words demand to live in three dimensions. My words are often unruly. But I do not begrudge them. They ask for themselves no more than I desire for myself—to breathe the open air and to make footprints at the edge of an ocean. In these times, I write a play.

As a PhD student I learned to turn my attention toward that which demands it. That was more than twenty years ago and since that time my work has been about some facet of “home.” Because home ain’t never been that sweet. But it really does make for interesting material. My hope, though, is that in writing about home I move beyond the confessional or spectacle to probe the detritus of our lives.