A title means marketing. It means that company's coming soon, and

Host: The sun had just slipped behind the downtown skyline, painting the glass towers in gold and crimson. The air carried that faint electric buzz that always came at dusk, when the city seemed to hold its breath before night fully claimed it.

Inside a narrow bookstore café, tucked between a laundromat and a flower shop, two voices filled the dim room. The walls were lined with old novels, manuscripts, and posters from forgotten book launches. A single string of lights—left over from last Christmas—glowed softly above the counter.

Jack sat at a corner table, his laptop open, a blank document glaring back at him like an unblinking eye. He was tall, his face sharp, his grey eyes full of fatigue and restless logic. Across from him sat Jeeny, her black hair falling over one shoulder, her brown eyes bright with that stubborn kind of hope that both irritated and disarmed him.

A poster by the counter announced in bold letters:
"DEBUT NOVEL LAUNCH: COMING SOON!"

Underneath, a quote from Caroline Leavitt was scribbled in marker:

“A title means marketing. It means that company’s coming soon, and you’d better get out the Christmas lights so they don’t miss your house.”

Jack: “Marketing. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Dress it up, make it shine, slap on a name, and pray someone buys it.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jack: “It is a bad thing when a story stops being a story and becomes a product.”

Jeeny: “But how else will anyone ever hear it, Jack? If you don’t put the lights on, how do you expect them to find your house?”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, a soft cloud of steam curling through the air. Somewhere outside, a bus braked, and a group of college kids laughed their way down the sidewalk, their voices echoing off wet pavement.

Inside, time slowed. The table between them was a border of beliefs—one side skepticism, the other faith.

Jack: “I hate it. The whole idea of marketing yourself. Writers used to be about truth, about honesty. Now it’s algorithms and hashtags and cover reveals. It’s a circus.”

Jeeny: “Every generation says that about change. Dickens had public readings. Hemingway had press tours. They knew you can’t just write in the dark and hope the world stumbles across your words.”

Jack: “You sound like a publicist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I sound like someone who understands that art doesn’t live in a vacuum. It needs an audience.”

Jack: “An audience ruins it.”

Jeeny: “No—an audience completes it.”

Host: A pause. The rain outside began to fall, soft and slow, tapping on the window like a polite visitor. Jeeny reached for her mug, her fingers trembling slightly as she sipped, her voice quiet but steady.

Jeeny: “Caroline Leavitt was right, Jack. A title isn’t just a name—it’s an invitation. It tells the world: I’m here. Come and see me before I disappear.”

Jack: “And if no one comes?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you lit the lights. That’s all any of us can do.”

Jack: “I don’t buy it. I’ve seen too many people get swallowed up by their own promotions. They start chasing likes instead of lines. You ever notice that? The more followers they get, the less alive their words sound?”

Jeeny: “That’s not the fault of the title, Jack. That’s the fault of forgetting what the title was for.”

Host: The barista began to stack cups, the clatter punctuating their silence. A train horn moaned in the distance, long and lonely.

Jack leaned back, his eyes following the raindrops as they slid down the window, each one reflecting a tiny light.

Jack: “You really believe in all this? That words can survive the machine?”

Jeeny: “They already have. Every time someone writes with a real heart, it’s a rebellion. You just have to find a way to let people know it exists. Otherwise, your rebellion dies unread.”

Jack: “So you think fame is the answer?”

Jeeny: “Not fame. Visibility. There’s a difference. Fame is about being seen. Visibility is about being found.”

Jack: “You really think the world cares about that distinction?”

Jeeny: “No. But that doesn’t mean you stop caring.”

Host: The rain had become a steady curtain now, blurring the city lights outside. The bookstore was almost empty, just a few pages rustling in the corner and the faint buzz of the neon sign outside—OPEN LATE.

Jeeny’s voice softened, but her words were sharp enough to cut through Jack’s cynicism.

Jeeny: “You remind me of those writers who think if something is pure enough, the world will come knocking. But the truth is, Jack—no one’s knocking. Everyone’s shouting. You have to put up a light just to be seen through the noise.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t want to shout?”

Jeeny: “Then whisper so powerfully they can’t help but listen.”

Jack: “You think that still works?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The light flickered, then stabilized again, casting a faint glow on Jack’s face. He looked older suddenly—not in years, but in disillusionment. Yet beneath that weariness, a spark of something uncertain stirred.

Jack: “When you say it like that… it almost sounds worth trying again.”

Jeeny: “It is worth trying. You’ve just forgotten why you started.”

Jack: “To tell the truth.”

Jeeny: “Then tell it—and make sure someone can see it.”

Jack: “Even if I have to hang the damn Christmas lights?”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Especially then. The truth deserves its own light.”

Host: The storm had begun to ease, the rain now a gentle whisper. Outside, the streetlights reflected in the puddles, doubling the glow—real and reflected, word and echo.

Jack closed his laptop, the blank page finally giving way to a few typed words. Jeeny watched, her eyes soft, as if she already knew what he was writing.

Jack: “You know… maybe marketing isn’t about selling yourself. Maybe it’s about letting the world know you’re still alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And if you’re lucky, someone out there will see the lights and realize they’re not alone in the dark.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, slowly, through the window, into the rain-washed night—the tiny bookstore café glowing like a lantern in the city’s maze of neon and glass.

The string lights above their table still shimmered, one bulb flickering, stubbornly refusing to go out.

And there, under that faint, defiant glow, sat two writers, two dreamers, two believers, quietly illuminating the world—one word, one story, one light at a time.

Because sometimes, as Caroline Leavitt said, a title isn’t just marketing.

It’s a signal flare—a way to tell the world, “I’m here. Don’t pass me by.”