Plays, Screenplays, Podcasts, Essays,

Lucy Gillespie’s digital series UNICORNLAND featured in Glamour Magazine, Rolling Stone, NPR’s All Things Considered, and Last Call with Carson Daly. Plays include SON OF A BITCH (“Pick of the Fringe” nominee; “Best of Broadwater” winner 2019) and KEEPING UP WITH THE PROZOROVS (“Best of Broadwater” winner 2018) both sold out extended runs at Hollywood Fringe. NYC credits include Ensemble Studio Theater, Naked Angels, Caps Lock, [the claque], PS.122, 3rd Kulture Kids, Eugene O’Neill Theater Center, FullStop Collective. Full-length productions include: THE FORUM ([the claque], 2015), ONE OF US (EST Bloodworks, 2014), OUTFOXED (FullStop Collective, 2012). Podcast credits include Wondery’s EVEN THE RICH. An alum of the Obie-award winning Youngblood Playwrights Group, Lucy has held residencies at MacDowell, Byrdcliffe Arts Colony, and the Playwright's Residency at Sweet Briar College. Lucy also writes for TV and film.

Unicornland, A Digital Series

Even the Rich, a Wondery Podcast

Son of a Bitch, Theater, Hollywood Fringe 2019

Keeping Up With The Prozorovs, Theater, Hollywood Fringe 2018

Adam Szymkowicz Interviews Playwrights

Q: Tell me, if you will, a story from your childhood that explains who you are as a writer or as a person.

A: I was the most popular kid (and only girl) in my Hebrew school class of awkward misfits. We all loved our teacher, John Haggard, who was funny and brought in great exercises that, like, made learning about Jewish identity fun! He also always brought in a box of Cadbury's Roses and at the break, he would open the box, lift it high above his head and tip it up so that brightly colored chocolates would tumble out onto the table. If I missed the frenzy, he would save me the orange and strawberry creams.

The following September, we had a new teacher, Deborah. We hated Deborah. She was strict and by the book. The class became less about games and discussions and more about learning Hebrew. She gave out homework and quizzes, had a high-pitched, whiny voice, and never, ever brought in Cadbury's Roses for us. Or even Quality Street. She had to go.

One day, she was in the middle of some kind of complex, abstract, probably highly intelligent thought when I stood up and announced that we would continue the class under the table. I crawled under the table and one by one, the boys (my minions) joined me. First, Deborah laughed. Then she started to scold. Then she started to beg. Then she started to cry. Then she crawled under the table and, crouched like a hamster, finished the lesson. We never saw her again.

It frightens me - and I think about this a lot - that this is fundamentally who I am.