Honestly, it’s been storytime for as long as I can remember.  When I was 13, it was a moral imperative that I know what I would be for the rest of my life.  A fondness for animals suggested I might be a vet.  Nausea at frog dissection suggested otherwise, and while waiting it out in the bathroom, I wracked my brain for a replacement career.  I often crafted stories for my siblings and babysitting charges, so I gratefully alighted on the idea that I would write them down and thereby be a writer (whew!).

Three unspeakable teenage novels (and the requisite melodramatic poetry) might well have convinced me otherwise.  Still, we all survived that era intact, and at 17 I went on to discover a love of writing for the stage.  Now, I had some kind of absurdly early success at that, having three productions of my work by the time I was 22 – which is another story, or five – but then I got a big head from getting cold-called by a Hollywood producer (another story) and wasted 15 years writing for the screen, which availed me not a smidgeon.  And when I returned to my first love of writing for the stage, the stage basically said “OH NO SHE DIDN’T” and wouldn’t return my calls.  Well.  I’m still trying, and I’m not without hope that I’ll get the right script on the right desk at the right time.

But in the meantime, here I am with an ongoing need to get stories out. The medium of writing a play is not an end in itself: it requires dozens of other people to share the story with an audience, including the one who first reads it and decides to bring others together to tell it.  And while I genuinely believe I’ve written some damn fine plays, I long to share my stories in a medium where people can access them.  Stories of serendipity and grace, embarrassment and growth, humility and humor.  Stories of misanthropy and generosity and forgiveness.  Not the stories my mind can conjure up and tack dialogue (and sometimes music) to, but the stories that my life has presented me with wholesale and stayed with me, and thus made me who I am.

By the way, who am I?  I go by Cee in informal contexts.  I’m white, cis, middle-class and middle-age – thus partaking of plenty of privilege – and while I’m female, I’m really tall and therefore (apparently) immune to a lot of the crap that most women put up with.  So the fact that I’m pretty alienated from society has mostly to do with me and not my demographic.  I’m poly and it amuses me to call myself a solopolist; bisexual and dating multiple genders – you know, married and not; a single-but-not-solo mom into group households and it-takes-a-village child-raising and other such alternative lifestyles; and concurrently very lefty and a bit activist, as you’d almost kind of have to be with all that.  I’m a Christian apostate, having meandered my way into an a la carte paganism.  I’m a recovering suburbanite, currently living in metro Boston for the aforementioned group-child-raising and poly-dating and the like, but preparing myself for a life of rural homesteading when my child is of age…  But that’s another story.

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