Psyche and subject matter.
In the vast majority of my writing I tend to seek out that which is obscure, that which is in danger of falling through the cracks, and attempt to shine a light upon it where few otherwise had been trained.
In The Eye of Ivan is about the architects of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Vox Pandora was a play about the being still left behind in the Box after the flashier story about the world’s evils had been told. Only a handful of people seem to have read the source material for The Man Who Was Thursday besides me. Contraption focused prominently on the inventors who had failed, gone mad, or both, many of whom never make it into the elementary history textbooks. I am currently sketching out ideas over a play about the relatively unknown history of Sir Isaac Newton’s time as warden of the Royal Mint, and his battle of wills with notorious counterfeiter William Chaloner.
And the rest of my plays are based on material I draw from my own life.
And I wonder, perhaps more morbidly than is necessary; and I admit that this thought occurred to me earlier today after having spent over two hours walking in the relentless snowfall with my feet slowly soaking; I wonder if perhaps the reason I cling with such determination to tales of the all-but-forgotten is that I fear suffering the same fate.
Creative Control 