A Conversation with DeLanna Studi
What year(s) were you at the New Harmony Project?
2024
Can you talk about a favorite memory or two? If you were asked to describe NHP to someone, how would you do it?
I have so many favorite memories from my time at the New Harmony Project. Professionally, one of the most meaningful experiences was being paired with Jenni Werner as my dramaturg. She encouraged me to dig deeper into the play's pivotal relationships and to more fully explore Cherokee cosmology. Her questions were thoughtful, rigorous, and deeply empowering, helping me see the work with greater clarity and intention.
On a community level, one of my favorite memories was volunteering at Black Lodge Coffee Roasters to make sure my fellow playwrights had their essential morning brews. While there, I unexpectedly met another Cherokee citizen who was visiting from North Carolina. Moments like that—small, surprising, and perfectly timed—reminded me that I was exactly where I needed to be.
If I were asked to describe the New Harmony Project to someone, I would say it is a place where artistic rigor and genuine care for people coexist. It is a space that nurtures both the work and the artist, creating an environment where deep creative exploration is supported by a true sense of belonging.
What makes NHP especially unique is that it doesn’t end when you leave. You remain part of the community for as long as you need. I was fortunate to be selected for the Alumni Dramaturgy Meeting Program, where I was paired with the incomparable Sarah Rose Leonard. That continued investment in artists—through sustained relationships and personalized support—is what makes the New Harmony Project so impactful and enduring.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing? What other writers (in any genre) do you find inspiring?
My inspiration has always come from my family, our culture, and the dream world. I draw from listening, learning, questioning, and imagining—especially from the stories that live between generations and across time. As the Artistic Director of Native Voices, the only Actors’ Equity Association theatre in the country devoted to developing new works by Native playwrights, I have the rare privilege of reading plays for a living. My twelve-year-old self would never have imagined that could be a real job, and it continues to shape and expand my creative world every day.
I am in awe of so many contemporary Native playwrights, including Jennifer Bobiwash, Dillon Chitto, Ty Defoe, Madeline Easley, Frank Kaash Katasse, Frances Koncan, Tara Moses, Mary Kathryn Nagle, Maddox Pennington, Vickie Ramirez, Sierra Rosetta, Madeline Sayet, Laura Shamas, Vera Starbard, and P.C. Verone—and that list continues to grow as more Native writers claim space on our stages.
What's your creative process/ritual?
My creative process is both structured and instinctive. I almost always work on two projects at the same time. It’s a practice that may look chaotic from the outside, but it gives me a necessary kind of freedom: when I hit an impasse with one piece, I can set it aside and turn toward the other without losing momentum. This back-and-forth keeps me in motion and allows ideas to continue developing in the background, even when I’m not consciously working on them.
When I find myself truly stuck, I rely on movement to unlock the work. Long walks are an essential part of my process; they create the mental space for problem-solving and often lead to unexpected breakthroughs. Many of my strongest ideas arrive when I am not sitting at my desk but moving through the world.
Sound also plays an important role in my ritual. I rarely work in silence and often keep music or a true crime podcast playing in the background—most reliably, an episode of Forensic Files. The steady presence of sound helps me focus and keeps me grounded in the work without overthinking it.
And, of course, no writing session is complete without coffee—and usually a sparkling water as well. These small, consistent rituals create a familiar environment that signals it’s time to work. Together, this blend of motion, multitasking, and sensory grounding forms a creative practice for me that embraces both discipline and discovery.
What advice would you give to aspiring creatives?
First drafts are not meant to be perfect. That draft is simply an act of courage: it is proof that you showed up and made something. Let them be messy and unfinished—chaos is where form begins.
Stay with the work. Discipline matters as much as inspiration. Build a practice that welcomes uncertainty and resists the urge to abandon a piece too soon. Trust that clarity comes later through revision, collaboration, and time.
Protect your curiosity. Follow what unsettles you, what excites you, what refuses to let you go. Perfection will try to silence you; curiosity will keep you moving. Make space for the mess, then return to it with care. That is where the beauty lives.
Do you have a dream project that you're dying to work on?
My dream project has always been — and will probably always be — reimagining the Deer Woman stories. Right now, I’m obsessed with her as a reluctant superhero: part ancient justice system, part modern-day vigilante. She hunts for the stories that were buried, the voices that were erased, and the people rendered invisible by history and power.
I’m less interested in capes and more interested in consequences — what it means to inherit a mythology/ cosmology built for survival and deploy it in a world that still refuses to listen. In this version, Deer Woman isn’t just a figure of warning; she’s a corrective lens. A living glitch in the colonial narrative.
And honestly? The world could use a few more Deer Women right now.
Can you tell us a little bit about “I” is for Invisible?
“I” Is for Invisible is a play rooted in the lived reality of the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women crisis and the devastating impact it has on families and communities. The story follows one family’s search for a missing loved one as they confront a legal and social system that consistently fails to prioritize Indigenous lives. While the play is driven by love and urgency, it also exposes the structural indifference that allows these disappearances to go unresolved and unacknowledged. At its heart, the piece is about visibility—about refusing to let Indigenous women be reduced to statistics and insisting on their humanity, their stories, and their right to justice.
It is also important to acknowledge that I would not be the first Native playwright finalist for the Susan Smith Blackburn Award without New Harmony’s nomination and advocacy. Their support makes it possible for Indigenous stories—and Indigenous artists—to be recognized in spaces that have historically lacked representation. This nomination is not only an affirmation of this particular play but also part of a larger continuum of increased visibility for Native voices in American theatre.