What would you write to your past, present, or future self? This question is the scaffolding for Letters to Myself, a show that is built on the dreams, regrets, introspections, and belated advice of letter writers around the world who have agreed to participate in the epistolary project of the same name by penning letters to themselves.

Performers Lauren Hurwood and Luca Rutherford effortlessly transition between the various show elements: a play where they compile and recite pieces from these self-correspondences, forum-style sections where audience members read snippets of letters and ask questions, and even a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers-inspired dance routine, to get over Hurwood's fear of dancing in public. They impressively break the ice and encourage participation, revealing the teacher's pets, heartbreakers and troublemakers in the crowd; three people in the audience of about four dozen shared stories of times they were arrested. Hurwood and Rutherford assume the roles of poised storytellers and quick-witted listeners. They are serious when recounting the death of a loved one, and the next minute, prove they have a silly and spontaneous side with swift reactions to audience members' quips; several unscripted references were made to breaking up via text message.

It is impressive that the show content varies so much from one performance to the next; my experience last night was unique. The audience bonded quickly and even asked questions to one another when they became invested in someone's story. While I assume the letter excerpts recited from memory with dimmed lighting stay the same, the interactions with the Oxford audience cannot be recapitulated in Leeds or Newcastle, and this is a special feeling. I was particularly moved by an extemporaneous letter which demonstrated to the audience that someone is listening and your voice matters (I will not reveal the whole surprise).

The show is non-traditional in that it does not follow a single genre, theme, or narrative, and that it is occasionally taken in the direction of an audience member's choosing. Topics range on the spectrum of heavy to lighthearted: suicide, eating disorders, insecurities, scraped knees, adoption, triathlons, tomatoes and unicorns. At some points it is jarring to move so quickly from one end of the spectrum to the other, but perhaps writer-cum-producer Becci Sharrock and director Allie Butler seek to depict the steep ups and downs of life. It also feels like the show bounces between topics quickly, and I did not have time for the previous message to sink in before they move to the next. Because of this, it is not always clear how the letters relate to each other. The play portion is bookended with the 'dear' and 'love' salutations common in letter writing, but apart from this it is difficult to find 'subheadings.' The show could potentially benefit from a discernible temporal or thematic structure: grouping letters by past, present, and future, or in the style of The Moth Radio Hour, with topics such as facing darkness, leaving home, and motherhood. This may become easier as more people submit letters.

My main criticism is that I wanted more. As a disciple of podcasts like The Moth, Modern Love and The Story Collider, the shards of letters lacked context and I was left trying to picture the letter writer since we never get a full vignette. However, my friend believes this allowed her to place herself in the situation and relate to the themes in her own way. Perhaps Sharrock deliberately adheres to the 'come in late and leave early' ethos of storytelling, keeping details of the letter writer a mystery and leaving us curious.

The focal point on the stage is a chalkboard easel that Hurwood and Rutherford visit and revisit as they compose letters to themselves. Towards the end, they wipe the slate clean, leaving a literal tabula rasa, a gesture inviting us to continue the show at home and write letters of our own.