One of the nice things about my high school in sleepy Thornhill is that its library stocked lots of your plays. An anthology of your East End plays, a volume of your Suburban Motel series. A few others. I read almost all of them and was entertained and puzzled. The plays’ language was precise in a way that made me feel their author knew exactly what he was up to, but the affect of them, if you can talk about a script’s “affect,” seemed sort of flat. Technical, cool. To my highly discerning 17-year-old judgement (uh…), those plays a) didn’t quite come alive as texts, and also b) impressed me as masterful. I was pretty confused and interested and kept reading them.