Winning an award for The Fork was like finding out that the doodle you absentmindedly sketched in a meeting had somehow ended up in a museum. First, you feel a swell of pride. Then, confusion. Then, an overwhelming sense of Well, now what are we supposed to do with this?

That was the question my brother Ken and I found ourselves facing after The Fork took top honors in our local 10-minute play festival. While winning an award in Provo is lovely (and it truly is), we had the nagging thought that it’s one thing to charm a hometown audience, quite another to play in the Big Apple. Like a kid who’s been the star of the school play and now wonders if Broadway might be an option, we decided to see how The Fork would fare on a bigger stage.

So, we did what all serious playwrights do when faced with an existential question—we Googled it. Specifically, we searched for 10-minute play festivals in New York City, hoping to find something that didn’t require us to sell a kidney for entry fees. That’s when we stumbled upon the Short Play Lab, a festival showcasing quick, punchy plays with no room for elaborate sets, high-concept lighting, or helicopter stunts (which, let’s be honest, had already ruled out some of our earlier ideas). We sent in The Fork, fully expecting the theater equivalent of a polite thank you, but no thank you.

And yet, a few months later, there we were—our quirky little 10-minute play, making its New York debut with an entirely new cast. And—astonishingly—The Fork won again. First place, audience choice. Twice in a row, in two very different cities. At this point, we were starting to wonder if we had accidentally done something good.

Naturally, that led to the next question: Could this be something bigger? Is there more to the Fork’s life after 10 pages?

Now, here’s the thing about asking questions like that. The moment you say it out loud, the universe tends to respond with, Oh, you want to make this harder? Okay, let’s see what you’ve got. Because “development” sounds like a glamorous, exciting process—creative minds at work, inspiration flying, Diet Coke cans clinking. In reality, it mostly involves staring at a blank page, wrestling with self-doubt, and realizing that turning a 10-minute play into a full-length story is a bit like deciding to turn your charming backyard treehouse into a three-story vacation home. At first, you think, How hard can it be? You add a room here, a window there—but soon, you realize you have no idea where the stairs should go, and the plumbing situation is becoming deeply concerning.

We knew The Fork had a fun core: an anonymous, all-powerful food critic whose golden or plastic fork could make or break a restaurant. But who was he? Why did he do what he did? What’s up with those brothers and why did they think it’s okay to hide a body in their cooler, which is probably against OSHA rules, even in New York? Do we really want to kill the character the play is named for on page 3? Because, let’s be honest, we’ve all had moments where we thought we were being brilliant, only to realize, hours later, that we were mostly just being insufferable.

So, Ken and I went back to the drawing board hitting various lunch joints in Provo. We asked ourselves:

• What happens after the critic dies?
• Who are the people left cleaning up the mess—or celebrating the win?
• Could The Fork himself be more than just a legend? Maybe he’s a little broken, too.

Bit by bit—like assembling a puzzle when you’ve lost the box with the picture—we started to see something bigger taking shape. A story with new characters, more heart, and a few surprising twists.

Now, I wish I could tell you we finished it right then and there, cue the swelling orchestral score and triumphant curtain call. But real life, as always, had other plans. Jobs, families, bills, the keeping it real side of life. The Fork has been simmering quietly in the background, like sourdough starter on the kitchen counter, waiting for just the right moment to rise.

So, what have I learned from this next chapter of The Fork’s journey?

• Sometimes, success is just the first step—it hands you a bigger question to answer.
• It’s okay if something takes longer than expected—you’re allowed to go back to it. Just don’t marry it. There’s more stuff to be mined where that one came from.
• You don’t need all the answers right away—sometimes, it starts with a few good questions.
• And if all else fails, there’s always chips and salsa. (Never underestimate the power of a well-timed snack break.)

So, stay tuned. Because The Fork is still on the table, and he’s not done yet. Maybe. Plus life has some curveballs of its own to throw at me.