By Brian S. Brijbag, Esq.
There are regions that shape stories.
And then there’s Florida, which doesn’t just shape them — it inhales them, spins them around, wraps them in alligator skin, and sets them loose on I-75 wearing flip-flops and holding a Publix sub.
Florida isn’t just a setting.
Florida is a genre.
And once you write theatre here, you realize you’re not just a playwright.
You’re a translator of subtropical myth.
🌀 The Absurd Is Just the Starting Point
I write absurdist comedies and dramatic satires. Plays where:
- A marriage dissolves over a slice of key lime pie during a hurricane.
- A shoeshiner on the Staten Island Ferry might be a prophet.
- Two people get stuck on a Duck Boat arguing whether the conspiracy or the cruise is the illusion.
But Florida writes its own absurdism — daily.
- A man throws an alligator through a Wendy’s drive-thru window.
- A python interrupts a wedding ceremony.
- Someone is arrested for impersonating a ghost in a cemetery… twice.
- The neighbor really did steal the Wi-Fi and the flamingo statue.
- And yes, there’s always someone named “Florida Man” lurking behind the headlines like a chaotic Shakespearean trickster.
You can’t write better farce than the Florida news cycle.
But what’s beautiful is that behind every bizarre headline is a real person, a real pain, a real need to be seen. And that’s where the theatre comes in.
🌴 Florida Characters Speak in Poetry and Tacos
Florida doesn’t hand you characters.
It throws them at you — sweaty, sunburned, covered in mosquito bites, and mid-monologue.
- The grandmother who once owned an orange grove and now runs a conspiracy podcast out of her carport.
- The off-duty lifeguard with a master’s in philosophy who sells sunscreen out of guilt.
- The ice cream truck driver who moonlights as a preacher and suspects the lizards are watching him.
- The HOA president who carries a laminated copy of the by-laws like it’s scripture.
- And the man who claims to be the reincarnation of Ernest Hemingway, except he’s vegan and writes erotic haikus.
I’ve met these people. You probably have, too.
They’re not caricatures. They’re Floridians. And they speak in a rhythm that’s part gospel, part heat stroke.
☀️ The Heat Does Something to the Brain (In a Good Way)
You know what 97 degrees with 98% humidity and a mosquito attack rate of 500 bites per square inch does to a person?
It breaks down inhibition.
And what you’re left with is truth — unfiltered, uncomfortable, and deeply theatrical.
In Florida, we don’t “warm up” to each other.
We jump into stories mid-sentence.
We cry in grocery store aisles.
We explain our trauma in line at the DMV.
We fight, reconcile, and salsa dance before the second act begins.
This makes Florida perfect for theatre:
We live in monologue.
We process through metaphor.
We mythologize our weirdness because we’ve earned it.
🐊 Florida Myth Meets Southern Gothic Meets Cosmic Joke
Tennessee Williams gave us Southern Gothic.
David Ives gave us linguistic whiplash.
Florida gives you storm sirens, meth gators, and grace in the form of a panhandle waitress who tells you to sit down and breathe before your court hearing.
My plays live in that tension — between the surreal and the sacred.
Between an absurd event and the very real ache underneath it.
Between a laugh and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’ve touched something true.
🎭 What It’s Like Writing Theater Here
You write with hurricane shutters rattling.
You rewrite while standing in line for sandbags.
You tech your show knowing half your audience may get stuck behind a drawbridge or spontaneous street festival involving flaming baton twirlers.
You cast actors who are EMTs, Publix cashiers, and drag performers on the weekends.
But you also get:
- A community that shows up
- Audiences who don’t need help suspending disbelief because they’ve lived through weirder
- A chance to write plays that are both absurdist comedy and civic ritual
❤️ Why I Stay
Because Florida is alive.
It pulses. It sweats. It contradicts itself.
And when I write here — truly write — I don’t have to invent anything.
I just have to listen.
To the woman telling her life story at the Wawa.
To the man preaching to the pelicans.
To the teenager who’s seen too much and still makes art.
To the land that’s both sinking and rising at the same time.
📝 Final Thoughts: The Florida Genre
If realism is plot.
And absurdism is premise.
Then Florida is something else.
It’s humidity and heartbreak.
It’s chaos and craft.
It’s a one-act with a gator cameo and a standing ovation from someone in board shorts.
Florida is not just a setting. It’s a tone. A tempo. A truth.
And I’ll keep writing it as long as the sky stays weird and the people stay raw.
So yes —
Florida is a genre.
And I’m grateful to call it home, courtroom, and stage.
Brian Brijbag 