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o one told me how my afternoons would change. After graduating with my MFA and becoming one of the many playwrights wandering Midtown without a place to write, read, or even use a restroom, the Lark Play Development Center became my salvation. They had clean bathrooms, cold water on tap, a staff that smiled before you could frown, and a writing room fit for royalty. In the years I was frantically searching for a theatre to call home, the Lark showed me that something else was possible: an artistic home that loved you holistically. When you sent them a play, the response was never, “Is this our kind of work?” or “How would we market this?” It was always, “Amazing—how can we support you?”
From 2016 until its closure in October 2021, I heard every word of my plays at the Lark first. Krista Williams welcomed me for roundtable readings of faltering first acts. Lloyd Suh gave me a season-long spot in the Rita Goldberg Writers’ Group to work draft by draft. Andrea Hiebler gathered a handful of us for week-long retreats to build plays from scratch. No matter the time of year or the mess I was in, the Lark insisted I was worthy, that my plays would find endings, and that a community was waiting to hear them. So, when the private email arrived announcing the Lark’s closure, I was devastated. How could the place that birthed my off-Broadway premiere vanish before helping me find its follow-up? How was I supposed to write without my writing home?
People who never experienced the Lark don’t always understand. They say, “Other folks develop plays,” or “You’ve got plenty of support, CA.” True, but those places are not where I met Kara Young, Diana Oh, Andy Lucien, Tiffany Villarin, Susan Stanton, Lucy Thurber, Suzy Fay, Renika Williams, Zhailon Livingston, Mary Hamilton, Nissy Aya, Sheria Irving, and so many more. The Lark was a homing beacon for artists hungry to play, to learn, and to reach beyond commercial limitations—an ensemble company without the need for the label.
If I had more time, I’d show you. We’d attend a reading or a holiday party or an off-Broadway show, and I’d quietly point out each person whose life intersected mine at 311 W. 43rd Street. Eventually, you’d recognize them yourself—the brightness in our eyes, the long hugs, the easy familiarity. And then that inevitable whisper: “Don’t you just miss the Lark?” This shared longing has become a language of mourning, a tie that binds us in institutional grief. But lately I’ve wondered how we turn that mourning into action.
Missing the most fantastic place on earth is one thing; imagining its regrowth is another. Yes, there have been glimmers—Lark programs absorbed elsewhere, other development centers surviving the pandemic, writers forming groups while juggling jobs and families. But nothing matches the Lark’s ethos. How do we build an institution that (1) is made for writers, (2) gives them a true home, and (3) takes on the labor of imagining what’s possible for them? That third part—the imagining—is the most essential. At the Lark, staff assessed each writer’s needs and placed us where we belonged. Our only job was to write. Because of that freedom, writers at all stages learned how their voices really worked.
It was a marvel. And the gap it left is one worth filling. If I had riches, I’d fill it myself. I’d call every writer I love: Let’s build a Lark for the new age. But the Lark taught me something that stops me every time: the future of our craft is not a burden writers should carry alone. It belongs to care workers committed to that future.
Who out there loves writers enough to dedicate time, energy, and imagination to their betterment?
Is it you? Want to start a new Lark with me?
If so—let’s freaking go.
