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Writer / Creator

In Development



C U Next Tuesday

TV series
Single Cam serial dramedy with t
he heart of 'Fleabag' + the messiness of 'Please Like Me' + the chutzpah of 'Transparent' based on the mildly exaggerated events of my life.

When a woman trying to navigate adulthood loses her ovary, she's forced to plan for the unforeseeable future with the help of her inner compass manifested as a puppet. 

The Stick Horse Project

Head Writer/Creative Development
TV series

A half hour coming-of-age comedy/drama inspired by true events.

When an outbreak of horse herpes threatens a group of American rodeo queens' last year of competition, they are forced to find an alternative ride. Fates collide when the solution is discovered in Finland where they only ride Stick... Horses.



Animated Short
A whimsical drama originally a short story written as a gift for a friend.

Haunted by an eerie mist that threatens to ruin what she's built, Atlas labors to protect her fortress in the clearing through the changing seasons. But the mist draws closer, and the hare is watching, can she save herself?

One Happy Year On Earth

Feature Film

Bea's tried everything and is ready to give up, so she takes all her savings to pursue one happy year on earth living the last of her life to the fullest. But will her convictions be swayed by family, friends and the opinions of everyone around her?


Time Spent with Meredith Baker: A Season in America

Executive Producer/Creative Development
Tall One Small One Productions

Accompany Meredith Baker in her trusty camper, Snowball, as she shares her tales of traversing America amidst the 2020 pandemic. From the uncrowded grounds of Camp Concrete in Washington, to the sparkling waters of the Mississippi Bayou, join Meredith on a journey of her reflections of the past year. Listen in as she encounters friends old and new, tries gator gumbo, and visits our national parks all while the sounds of nature enhance the wondrous, wandering year of a 76 year old, former Swan Lady. Her writing from the road will leave you tickled and soothed as she effortlessly brings you with her over the course of 18 episodes… good thing you’re sitting up front, she likes the company. 

Creative Writing



Short Story
A whimsical tale originally written as a gift for a friend, soon to be adapted into a short film.

Haunted by an eerie mist that threatens to ruin what she's built, Atlas labors to protect her fortress in the clearing through the changing seasons. But the mist draws closer, and the hare is watching, can she save herself?


On Recovery and Loneliness:

Recovery happens slowly now. From good or bad. It’s a longer stretch when you’re alone. For there’s no-one to hug you back to life after triumph or failure. To cradle you in their arms And hold you close as the warmth from their body seeps in, warming your own insides, soaking your tears on their shirt. So you move through time. Like a slug. Heavy and solitary. Slothily charging forward, leaving a trail of tired across the stagnant air. And you’re ok. Because this is what is in time. But you need a few days more than someone who comes home to filled space.

On the New Year:

And as I scroll, endlessly, on an app that I’ve deleted a thousand times before, I feel as though everyone is moving forward. Advancing into the future of their present. With baby cheeks and rings, partners and trips, glamour and celebrations that make sense. And I feel myself falling. Pulled the opposite way, as the brushes of “life” surround me like a perfectly curated tunnel of the shadows of others. It’s hard to describe this feeling in any way other than moving backwards. 

Other. O-ther. O-there. O, O FUCKING O! 

As others go forth I am left behind. Further and further from the things that I too want but am not yet ready for as they race past me, around me, waving and smiling but unable to stay. Or, perhaps, I am too ready, but meant for other things. Things that don’t yet leave echoes of their existence on the internet. But that, hopefully, will flood my sense of self in this new year. The time marker for a clean slate. 

We love a clean slate.


The future feels much like the past. But the air is thinner here. And people are hopeful still.

On Fullness:

What is this? Is it torture? IS it love? No? Just the curse of being either unbearably full or devastatingly empty of feelings at all times? A gift. They say. To feel so much at once all the time. To know yourself so deeply. Well. Well, well. The tornado of my mind whirls around every thought come to visit and infect me with... What? My soul presses against me from the inside, stretching my skin thin, translucent in light, desperate to escape. Trapped in a tube too small for its vast expansiveness. Confining it to fit an unfit shape. Square peg round hole. It is so so painful. To feel. So much. not knowing what kind of moment it will be. Will I burst open and flood the air with what pours out my eyes? A joke. But a sweet one. She always cries. Or, will I collapse inward as those same eyes, now full of doubt, squeeze from within the last dregs of hope? You are an emotional creature. And just when I believe I have a grasp on the nature of my nature, it turns and twists, slithering out of my reach. Tangling itself tighter. Each time a thread is pulled a forgotten crevasse of my heart twinges. Hoping. Losing hoping.


This gift I hold bares a hearty burden. Too big a burden to bare with no known purpose. For I become too much the burden borne and big feelings bury me.



For Brian, when he cannot see:

He said

To me

But to himself

I’m lightning

And I watched him wait

To be a Tiger

In the hollow spaces of the unknown


To be a part 

A head

A heart

But what he didn’t see

That I saw

Astride the ride between courage and dread

Is that he already was

Everything he needed to be

If only he

Had room to see


When Tigers die

And seep back into earth

His lightning can still

And will

Strike twice


Shut out here

On my parents’ porch 

With the blue and white sky

In sections above purple above green

Because my sister locked me out

But it’s nice

And there’s the breeze

The one filled with hope

And possibility

But it’s getting chilly

And I’m hungry

Bitch better let me in soon


And the time came

When Peter said,

“No more.

No more lost boys.

For I am tired,

And losing flight 

Each time I bring them here

Across the sea.”


A page was torn out of this story

A page here

To be forgotten

But not quite.

A page removed for fear

Of heartache.




A loss too great to build upon,


Built anew

On soiled ground.


To be replaced

With something


Than before

The page was torn. 

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