I feel that I am just a storyteller, and whether I am wearing the director hat or the playwright hat, it doesn't matter.

We only have so much time.... Time will kill you – it really will.

I think because my brother was an actor and I just saw how he struggled through, I guess I'm sensitive to it.

My work is always more emotional than I am. My characters say things to each other that I get accused of not being able to say to my girlfriend.

In Chekhov, when people leave, a carriage is taking them away forever. The stakes are so high just for someone to make a simple exit. And now we have all this access to public transportation, automobiles and jets and the Internet; we're so easily distracted, but the world is still designed to destroy you. It just happens quicker and faster now.

When I got inside, I just sort of stood there. There's nothing stranger than the smell of someone else's house. The scent goes right to your stomach. Mary's house smelled like lemon furniture polish and oatmeal cookies and logs in a fireplace. For some reason it made me want to curl up in the fetal position. I could have slept right there on their kitchen table.

When it's just a few scenes and a couple of actors behaving in a room, I feel very confident with that.