Hello! I’m Lia.

Playwright/Lyricist/Composer. Occasional Poet. Word-wrangler. Member of the Dramatists Guild.

You’ll find me writing stories that beg to be spilled aloud from the dusty pages of history or the shadow distance between you and me. My mission–setting words like candles in the window, burning bright.

Threads in the Tapestry

Eight. Bright-eyed girl munching through a stack of books as tall as she is, seated. In the homeschool bookstore. On a Saturday. And she wasn’t even homeschooled…yet.

Ten. Midsummer. Perched on a velvet seat. Pop-Pop hands her a program. Grandma hands her a mint. The lights dim. Orchestra plays. She leans forward, letting the story envelop her.

Fourteen. A wisp of a girl, up on a school stage on a Friday night. Shivering under the hot stage lights. Anne Frank, in the moment, bearing the curse of a yellow star. “Even the moon seems cruel, hollow.” And, just before the curtain falls, “I dreamed of being a great writer.”

Nineteen. Twenty. Arranging words on an empty page. Wondering in the stillness if the road less traveled was worth the courage. A fragile hope held out. The writer persists, looking to joy.

Twenty-something. Abroad, but at home among books. Savoring Georgian architecture in a sunlit Dublin room, searching for treasure in centuries of yellowed folk tunes. It’s almost overwhelming. Decadent, this quiet room full of music.

A few weeks later, she finds herself in a similar room, equally delightful. In Belfast. Through a wardrobe. Full of wonder and imagination. And quiet. She’s writing fervently, chasing a deadline.

She makes it, a little jet-lagged. A bright coral blouse. A little rush and tremor in her voice, she sings. Sings her heart out in a Houston theater for an Armenian girl she saw in a black and white photo. The girl with the indescribable eyes. This is why the writer toils. For the moments like this. And the single, satisfying “well done,” when it’s all over.

With a golden flame of optimism, she hopes to touch lives from her humble little desk where simple words are put to work. When she catches a glimpse of the power of those words, it surprises her. A moment of ear-to-ear grinning, she’s brimming with gratitude, feeling the hugs and the soul tears and the radiant delight of the people who come up to her, inspired and moved by the words she wrote that the actors spoke that floated straight to the heart. And her own heart swells, thinking, “I don’t deserve this,” as she gives a quiet, “Thank you.”

Maybe you’ll be there, one of those times.

Words are meant for sharing.