At the start of 2020, my playwriting pal, Kate Cortesi, challenged me to come up with a mantra for the year that I could use as an anchor and reflect on, especially during challenging times. At the time, I was juggling a few playwriting projects while getting used to my new (!) very busy (!!) TV schedule. I was overwhelmed and, being the workaholic that I am, determined not to let anything fall by the wayside. Inevitably, some things did.
My time management skills seemed to suddenly evaporate.
Where had all the hours in the day gone?
Why did it take me almost three hours to write three pages?
In order to move forward, I had to make a habit of telling myself: “It’s OK” and truly believe it—not to shy away from my commitments or make excuses, but rather to allow myself to take the rare, necessary moments to breathe.
To remember my humanity.
To forgive myself when I fall short of the expectations I have set for myself that others may (but likely do not) share.
“It’s OK” became my 2020 mantra.

This past spring, life was on a high note for me. I was finishing up my first year as a staff writer for one of my favorite TV shows, “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” and it had just been announced that my play, Torera, was to have its world premiere at Long Wharf Theatre in the Fall of 2020, having made The Kilroys List in 2019.
I had made it.
I was a working writer, living off of my art.
Then, come March, everything changed.
New York City was hit hard by COVID-19 and every facet of life shut down—including my first love, theater.
Every day my inbox was flooded with production cancelation notices.

Theater would never be the same again. We, as a community, would never be the same again.

Since March 13, 2020, I have been living in a state of extreme uncertainty.
As a playwright, you would think that I would have gotten used to this feeling by now (this lifestyle doesn’t exactly cater to comfort or stability).
COVID-19 has made disruption the new normal.
My productivity has shot way down. These days, writing has felt like a Herculean task that I do my best to avoid at all costs (even this essay took two weeks to write).
Truth be told, I’m feeling incredibly lost right now, as I imagine many are.
It’s OK.

My fiancé and I both lost all our freelance gigs in a matter of days.

Production on “SVU” was halted until further notice.

I turned thirty-three in isolation.

I had an existential crisis dissecting the word “essential.”  Why was the art form I’ve dedicated my blood, sweat, and tears to not considered part of that group?

I spent most of my days sleeping. Was I depressed or was my body cashing in on all the late nights I sacrificed for my craft? (Probably both.)

It would be three months before I received the official word that my production would be postponed until Fall of 2021. As a biracial Latina, landing my first big regional production for an incredibly ambitious piece was a huge milestone in my career. For many years, I was convinced that I wrote an unproducible play, so when Long Wharf sought me out to produce Torera, it affirmed that all my years of hard work, persistence, patience, and advocacy wasn’t in vain.
Even though I agreed with the decision, the sudden postponement of the production was devastating.
It’s OK.

The Kilroys List is a tool for producers committed to ending the systemic underrepresentation of women, trans, and non-binary playwrights in the American Theater.
As a member of the new class of Kilroys, it has been an incredible honor to be part of that legacy and witness firsthand how The List has influenced the nation’s theatrical landscape.
When you look at The 2020 List, you see a glimpse (there is so much more!) of what the American Theater has to offer.
You can see the progress the industry has made in the last six years since the founding Kilroys published their first List in 2014.
The data shows that were it not for the pandemic, American theaters across the country would be presenting the work of women, trans, and gender non-binary playwrights right now.
Looking at this year’s List, I’m wrestling with simultaneous feelings of joy and celebration for these glorious, ambitious, diverse creators of plays and musicals, but I’m also mourning what we have all lost.

The world is at a tipping point.
All our systems are in need of reform, and that includes theater.
We need equity, we need access, we need to remember our humanity.
When “risk-taking” programming solely happens in the beginning of spring and a pandemic throws our entire industry into question, we lose important voices—Black, Indigenous, Asian, Latinx, Woman, LGBTQIA+, and beyond.
When theater resumes, if we operate as we did before, the only “risk” we take is losing the long-sought progress artist-activists have been fighting for.
Before we hit the reset button, we need to actively reflect on where we’ve been, decide who we want to be, and then proceed accordingly.
I’m hopeful that we can, and will, emerge better than when we went into this.
I hope that we take the time.
It’s OK.

Don’t get me wrong—I miss plays.
I miss rehearsals.
I miss retreats I have to travel for.
I miss watching a story unfold in a dark space with strangers.
What I don’t miss? Rushing through my life.
In every grant application I’ve ever written, I’ve always said, “If only I had the time…”
“If given the time, I would…”
“Everything would be OK, if only I had the time…”
Well, in quarantine, I’ve got nothing but. It’s a luxury I’m not taking for granted. Sometimes I feel motivated to spend time with my plays, some days I don’t.
I’m very lucky to be back at work again, so that’s been the focus of my writing, if I write at all.
But right now, what feels most important is making space for myself.
I’m cooking almost every meal from scratch—inspired by my grandmother’s recipes, episodes of “Chopped”, and the NYT Cooking app.
I’m taking long walks with my fiancé, rediscovering the neighborhood I have lived in for eight years.
I’m calling my family more.
I sit on the rocks that overlook the Hudson River, watching the water peacefully move back and forth, and smile at the occasional ducks that float on by. In these moments, I remember my humanity. I’m looking forward to the day I can see my work fully realized on stage, whenever that may be.
For now, I’m reclaiming my time.
It’s OK.