Often, when an interviewer or journalist realizes the number of plays I have in print, he or she asks the inevitable question—"What's you secret?" For some reason, my work in films and television doesn't seem to interest them (nor myself, for that matter). It's plays—those odd "things" most people prefer to see and hear rather than read.

I like to counter by mentioning the number of plays I've written that have never been published, nor performed. Or plays that have been performed but have yet to meet print. This never appeals in the same way "What's your secret?" does—as if there were a magic pill to swallow or a button to push that might explain a prodigious play output.

I've often searched for an "exact" answer, but so far I haven't been overly successful. I do, however, have some thoughts that might suggest a clue.

I grew up in a rather Dickensian factory town in Massachusetts in the 1940s. Gray and unimaginative would not be too harsh a description. You either conformed or became an outsider. Fortunately, the town was close to Boston, which had a thriving theatrical life. From the age of 10, I saw almost every play that opened in Boston, from slapstick musicals to rousing thrillers (seats were cheap then). Every cent I earned from various odd jobs went for a second balcony perch. Often I took along a book to read while waiting for the curtain to go up. And what authors were my favorites? L. Frank Baum, Edgar Wallace, Conan Doyle, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Rider Haggard—each writer a master of possibility and imagination.

I considered a good play one that didn't bore me and a bad play one that did. My appetite for live theatre was both voracious and eclectic. I considered everything the basis for a potential plot—every person I met a possible character. Very early in the game I noticed that most people "see" but rarely "observe." I was always a good observer and learned quickly that what people don't say is often more interesting than what they do say. Observations and questions went into the play blender. More ideal ingredients.

Writing plays excites me. It gives me a satisfaction that almost nothing else can. Part compulsion, part obsession, all love, I cannot conceive of life without the next play waiting. But deep down in the creative under soil, I write now for the same reason I wrote when I was a kid—to escape. I'm optimistic enough to assume there's an adventurous audience out there that's willing to escape with me. At least for a little while.