On Lists & Off Lists

some end of year reflections

Before we begin, a quick announcement - I’m beginning 2026 with a staged workshop in NYC of my metatheatrical autobiographical fever dream of a play lisa; a fantasia. January 16th & 17th at Theater Row - all the details are at the end of this post.

Hope to see you there!

Photo by camilo jimenez on Unsplash

The other day, I logged into Facebook and saw chatter about a List.

A List of the Most Influential Plays of the last 25 years.

At the moment of publication, I still haven’t seen a link to the article come across my feed, but I’ve seen a lot of conversation about it. Folks sharing their thoughts about it – who was on it, sure, but most of the posts that wound up in my feed seemed to make this list personal. Lots of big feelings in social media form. There was snark at the plays listed, diminishing the folks who curated the list, diminishing the playwrights on the list, as though by making those plays smaller, it would create space for their own.

At the core of those posts was hurt. Hurt at being left off a list, at not being invited onto it. And anxiety. Anxiety that their art isn’t making a difference in the world, that their art isn’t important. Artists are soft souls and tender hearts in a world made of brass, and it always hurts to feel rejected.

But when our pain is so great we diminish our own reality, it can destroy us.

And no list should ever hold that power over our own heart.

I was hurt by a list once.

By being left off one, specifically.

This was almost ten years ago so my memory of the thing is a little fuzzy around the edges and I don’t remember what the purpose of the list was. But what’s sharp and still way too in focus was my reaction to it.

It wasn’t great.

I still remember the feeling, reading this list and seeing my name had been left off; it felt like I had been jabbed by a sharp needle, numbing me with shock before thawing out into pain – the indignity of being left off this list, the frustration, anger.

I was pissed off.

I was so pissed off that it spurred me into action. Through my tears, I drafted a Facebook post. I actually drafted it in Microsoft Word first, that’s how serious I was. I wanted to make sure I had it Right, that all my anger and pain was carefully curated and crafted into words before

I posted it.

God, remembering it makes me curdle inside myself like spoiled milk. I just wanna scream advice at my past self, ‘Gina, don’t do it! It’s gonna be okay! You don’t want this popping up on your Facebook memories, delete it, please don’t press post!!!’

But my present self hasn’t learned how to time travel yet and so there was no way to warn my past self not to post it. There was no way to cradle them and say Hey, it’s going to be okay. I can only sit and watch it happen in my memory – and reflect on it now.

In that moment, I remember thinking – and believing – that my life as an artist was over because I hadn’t been included on that list. I felt invisible. It felt like getting a rejection for an opportunity I hadn’t even applied to, as though I was losing something by being left off.

I remember how at that point in my career, I felt like my art was screaming into the void. I was trying really, really hard to be seen, to be taken seriously as a playwright. I remember feeling like I was a kid standing at the back of a pack of who I perceived to be popular kids, constantly bouncing on my heels trying to get them to notice me.

And even though I was receiving some recognitions, none of them felt like it was enough. I was so focused on the No’s, I was taking the Yes’s for granted. I was taking the art I got to make for granted. I wanted more, constantly reaching for the Next Thing, convinced if I could only get This One Thing, it would be The Thing to shoot me to the top, that would give me the success I so desperately wanted to cling to as an artist.

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I was in this fragile state of mind when that list dropped and well, all my hurt and pain and frustration came out and manifested itself in this semi-public way.

It all goes back to the Stories we tell ourselves about ourselves and our place in the art world. Giving so much weight to a single opportunity can cause us to self-destruct. We belittle ourselves, turn our soft hearts into bitter ones. Our art can become bitter, can be stripped of our unique voices and flattened into what we think the industry might like instead. And we can become embittered to one another.

Frustration happens. It’s human to be hurt and disappointed. But to what extent?

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I was on a List, once.

It was thrilling.

And still is one of the greatest honors I’ve ever received.

It was 2019 and ALOND(R)A was included on The Kilroys List. This is a list ¹ meant to uplift plays written by women and gender expansive writers. And I couldn’t believe that ALOND(R)A was on it. A huge honor to take in, to realize there were a group of artists advocating for that play? It meant a lot.

It still means a lot.

I was riding high the day it was made public. My phone and inbox were blowing up with texts and e-mails of congratulations, mad likes across my social medias, I was on top of the whole world.

I went to a co-writing event the next day, still proud. As I approached the meeting area, I heard a couple of voices. Two people, bashing the List and the plays that were on it.

I don’t remember the exact words, but they were diminishing how the plays were chosen, belittling the plays that were chosen, shrinking the impact this list would have. It was clear that one of them had expected one of her plays to be included. And it wasn’t.

The playwrights stopped when I approached, but one of them looked at me and said ‘Oh, your play is on that list, isn’t it?’ I nodded. She continued. ‘I’ll be interested to see if anything even comes of it.’

This is the thing that happens. Our hurt trickles out and burns those who come in contact with it. I’m sure my Facebook post hurt those whose plays and names were on that List because I couldn’t contain my hurt – a hurt that was part of a story that wasn’t even true! – because I had equated the existence of that list with my own perceived failure, my own bitter feelings.

In Fall 2019, ALOND(R)A received a really great high-profile reading because of its inclusion on The Kilroys List.

And it hasn’t been touched since.

No public readings, no workshops or productions. I did turn it into a YA novel – which is its own complicated thing². And having my name included on that List gave me visibility – and like I said, is a great honor I hold to this day.

But it didn’t change my life like I thought I would.

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

Lists are great and they don’t reflect the fullness of an individual’s life and contributions in the theater³. It’s a delicate balance, a tight tightrope to tread.

Not being included doesn’t make your art less-than. Being included doesn’t make your art greater-than. In both cases, it Is. Another piece of our artistic puzzle clicking into place.

And that’s actually huge.

I think it’s good to look at Lists and be critical of them, or at least curious – who curated this, who is missing, how does it reflect our collective now? We should question everything because we know that the art of the world is often filtered through a white, heteronormative, cis-male & able-bodied/minded lens. And when voices are left out, we should do our best to uplift them. We should create our own lists, shout those out to the world, quietly nudge writers into other people’s orbits.

But if you put your whole heart into whether or not you’re included on a list – or win the award – or any of the many, many different opportunities we run up against as artists in this world – you run the risk of telling yourself a story that can hollow you out and make you a shell of the artist you are.

Photo by Alex Jackman on Unsplash

Our art matters. It adds something to the world, whether we’re recognized for it publicly, privately, or not at all. It’s hard to believe in something we can’t see. We want that external validation, that thing we can point to and say See?! I matter! And it is always great and always an honor to receive that recognition – and it doesn’t take away all the less visible recognitions or invisible recognitions we’ll encounter in our lives.

Your art matters because you matter.

Our lives are not often changed by a singularity. They are changed over the course of years by a multitude of singular things, each one adding up to create the fullness of our life. And that’s everything.

So keep forging ahead with your beautiful art.

I can’t wait to see what you create.

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A few announcements before you go -

• Very excited to be jumping into the new year with this staged workshop of lisa; a fantasia. It’s a metatheatrical absurdist autobiographical fever dream of a play - and I’m in it! Three performances only, January 16 & 17th at Theater Row. You can find out more information and reserve tickets here.

• Mark your calendars - Boomerang Theater’s producing a reading of The Evergreen Players Proudly Present a New Version of Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya as part of their First Flight Festival on January 9th! Also in NYC. Tickets will be available soon!

• I added the latest draft of THAT TIME TERRI AND LILY TOOK A ROAD TRIP TO SEE THE LAURA INGALLS WILDER HOUSE to New Play Exchange. It’s available to read, as long as you have a subscription.

• MERCUTIO LOVES ROMEO LOVES JULIET LOVES and The Virtuous Fall of the Girls From Our Lady of Sorrows are available to be purchased and licensed from Original Works Production! Exciting news - I’ve already earned out my advance for MERCUTIO! Thank you to everyone who has purchased a copy. Let’s make the same happen for Virtuous Fall! And please consider licensing these plays as part of your upcoming theater season.

Thank you so much for being a part of The Rejected Writer! I’ll see you next week for a Year in Review - and then pretty soon after on January 1st for our first Rejection Roundup of 2026! Until then, protect your art - and your heart.

1. they are now a web – check it out!

2. Talk about Lists and Failure - I’ll get the courage to write about it one day, I swear.

3. or any art.