A good column is one that sells paper. It doesn't matter how

Host: The pressroom hummed with the low growl of machines, the steady heartbeat of an industry that lived and died by ink and noise. Sheets of fresh paper rolled endlessly, their smell — sharp, metallic, and almost holy — filling the air. The city outside was still waking, a muted blur of neon and drizzle beyond the high windows.

Jack sat at a cluttered desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, ash curling lazily toward the floor. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a stack of newspapers, her hands folded, her expression poised but alive — the kind of calm that hides an argument waiting to bloom.

The Host’s voice arrived like a whisper of static, carrying the texture of newsprint and fatigue.

Host: The truth, in the world of ink and deadlines, isn’t always the same as the truth of the heart. Somewhere between the typewriter and the reader, integrity and commerce sit at opposite ends of a narrow desk, arguing over who gets the byline.

Jeeny: softly, quoting “Herb Caen once said, ‘A good column is one that sells paper. It doesn’t matter how beautifully it is written and how much you admire the author... if it doesn’t sell any papers, it’s not a good column. It’s a terrible yardstick to use, but in the newspaper business, that’s the whole thing.’”

Jack: chuckling dryly “Finally, someone honest about it. Words don’t feed themselves. You can’t pay the bills with elegance.”

Jeeny: frowning slightly “You make it sound like truth is a luxury item.”

Jack: shrugs “Maybe it is. A column that doesn’t sell is just a diary entry with good punctuation.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “You’re confusing survival with virtue. Just because something sells doesn’t mean it matters.”

Jack: grinning faintly “And just because it matters doesn’t mean anyone will read it.”

Host: The machines hissed louder, as though joining in the argument — a chorus of mechanical cynics. The room smelled of coffee gone cold and ambition half-burned out.

Jeeny: crossing her arms “You think popularity equals value?”

Jack: exhaling smoke “No. But in this business, popularity is oxygen. Without readers, you’re not a journalist — you’re a poet whispering to the void.”

Jeeny: gently, her tone rising “And since when did the void stop deserving poetry?”

Jack: smirking “Since rent came due.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “You sound like every editor who’s ever killed a good story because it didn’t bleed enough.”

Jack: leaning forward, his eyes glinting “And you sound like every idealist who thinks passion alone pays for paper and ink.”

Jeeny: with quiet fire “Passion built the press, Jack. Not profit.”

Jack: gruffly “No — profit sustained it. Don’t rewrite history. Gutenberg didn’t invent the printing press to enlighten humanity. He did it to sell Bibles.”

Host: The tension in the room crackled like electric wire. A stack of newspapers toppled nearby, scattering headlines across the floor. The black ink bled faintly where a drop of spilled coffee struck.

Jeeny: bending down to pick up one of the papers, reading aloud “War, corruption, scandal... That’s what sells. Not compassion. Not truth. You call that success?”

Jack: watching her “I call it relevance. People read what reflects them — their fears, their cravings. You can’t blame a mirror for what it shows.”

Jeeny: her voice trembling with conviction “But you can choose what to reflect! A writer’s job isn’t to feed the hunger of the lowest bidder — it’s to awaken something higher.”

Jack: his tone hardening “Idealism doesn’t print copies, Jeeny. People don’t buy enlightenment — they buy escape.”

Jeeny: quietly, fiercely “Then maybe we’ve taught them to expect the wrong thing. Maybe the press stopped being the conscience of the people and became their candy.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Candy keeps them coming back.”

Jeeny: with bitterness “Until they rot.”

Host: A long silence followed, filled only by the sound of the presses — relentless, alive, deafening. The smell of ink hung heavy, clinging to their clothes, to their thoughts.

Jack: after a pause, softer now “You think truth alone can save the world?”

Jeeny: quietly “Not save. Remind. Remind us that we’re still human.”

Jack: leans back, staring at the ceiling “I’ve written truth before. No one read it. But the day I wrote a piece about a celebrity’s divorce, I got more letters than I could answer.”

Jeeny: sadly “Maybe they just needed something easier to feel.”

Jack: sighs, almost weary “Then what’s the point? To write for ghosts who won’t listen?”

Jeeny: firmly “To keep writing anyway. Because even if one person listens — just one — it’s enough. The right words don’t always sell, but they stay.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, streaking the windows with long, silver trails. The world blurred behind them — headlines dissolving into shadow, cities dissolving into reflection.

Jack: after a long silence “You know... maybe Caen wasn’t cynical. Maybe he was just practical. He knew beauty without reach is self-indulgence.”

Jeeny: softly “And maybe reach without beauty is exploitation.”

Jack: turns to her, voice low “So where’s the balance?”

Jeeny: after a pause, looking into the fire “Maybe the balance isn’t in what we write, but why. Write to move hearts, even if you only sell ten copies. Write to sell, if you must — but never forget what your words are worth, not what they’re priced at.”

Jack: quietly, nodding “Maybe the best column sells papers and souls.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. But only one of those lasts.”

Host: The presses began to slow, their rumble easing into a rhythmic hum. The lights dimmed slightly, casting long shadows over the room. On the wall, a single headline stood out among the others, framed and yellowed with age: “Truth Hurts. Lies Sell.”

Jack looked at it for a long moment. Then he stubbed out his cigarette.

Jack: softly “Maybe Caen wasn’t wrong. Maybe the yardstick is terrible. But it’s the only one the world gives us.”

Jeeny: gently, placing a hand over his “Then maybe our job is to change what the world measures.”

Jack: looks at her, eyes softening “You still think words can do that?”

Jeeny: smiling, her voice quiet but certain “They always have.”

Host: The camera would pull back — the two figures framed against the glow of machinery and smoke, surrounded by stacks of stories waiting to be read, ignored, or remembered.

The world outside went on — newspapers folded, coffee spilled, readers forgetting. But inside that pressroom, something quieter endured: the tension between truth and commerce, between creation and consumption.

Host: Herb Caen once called it a terrible yardstick — the need for words to sell.
But maybe the tragedy isn’t that beauty must sell —
it’s that the world has forgotten how to buy meaning.

For in the end, the value of a column isn’t in how many read it —
but in how deeply it lingers after they’ve put the paper down.

The presses groaned one final time,
and as the first copies rolled out — warm, imperfect, alive —
Jack and Jeeny stood in silence,
watching truth make its fragile way into the world.