Yesterday, the Lark play development center, which — in a pivotal life moment 11 years ago, SAVED MY WRITER LIFE — announced yesterday that it will close its doors after 27 years of service to playwrights.
We casually say things like ‘ I am gutted’ but I think I might actually be. There’s a hole in Manhattan now, and in theater, and in the hearts of many many playwrights. I’m just one of them, shuffling up to the microphone, attempting to articulate what they meant to me. I love you, Lark Theater. Christmas Eve 2010, this grainy little writer baby was smoking in a Goodwill parking lot in my hometown, wrapping my brain around the fact that I’d probably need to move back home with my parents as I was out of money and options and hope. My phone rang and like Santa himself, John Eisner (kind and tireless founder) told me I’d been awarded a fellowship that came with some cash. He told me that the funds were meant to give me time to research, to write. It was a Christmas miracle. The New Voices fellowship brought me back to NYC, back to myself, restored my faith in my own work. That’s what the Lark did: build up often marginalized writers by simply believing in them, giving them a room with some pencils and music stands. 💔 about the closure, hoping that similar playwright homes spring up in its wake, especially during this fragile time. THANK YOU JOHN, Andrea, and everyone I am forgetting, for literally everything.
(*Shuffles back to seat in tears, opens new word document; starts new play, determined.)