All stories interest me, and some haunt me until I end up writing

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the half-closed blinds, painting thin stripes of gold and shadow across the cluttered room. The walls were covered with bookshelves, each one bowed under the weight of stories that smelled faintly of dust, ink, and memory.

Outside, a distant church bell tolled, its sound carrying the slow ache of time.

Jack sat at a wooden desk, a half-empty bottle beside his typewriter. Crumpled pages littered the floor, casualties of his war with words. Jeeny stood near the window, her silhouette framed against the falling light, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.

Host: The room breathed with the weight of stories unsaid — the kind that sit behind the eyes and refuse to leave.

Jeeny: “Isabel Allende once said, ‘All stories interest me, and some haunt me until I end up writing them. Certain themes keep coming up: justice, loyalty, violence, death, political and social issues, freedom.’ Do you ever feel haunted, Jack?”

Jack: without looking up “Haunted? Constantly. But not by stories — by people. Real ones. The kind who never got their ending.”

Jeeny: “That’s still a story. You just haven’t told it yet.”

Jack: “Some stories shouldn’t be told.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they just scare you.”

Host: Jack paused, his fingers hovering over the keys, his reflection fractured in the dusty typewriter ribbon.

Jack: “You think it’s fear? No. It’s futility. You can write about justice, freedom, death — dress them in metaphors, give them faces — but the world doesn’t change. The story ends, the book sells, and outside, someone still bleeds for the same cause.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly why stories matter? Because reality doesn’t listen to statistics, but it listens to emotion. Words don’t stop bullets, but they outlive them.”

Host: A faint breeze from the open window stirred the papers, as if some unseen spirit agreed with her.

Jack: “You really believe stories change anything?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Look at Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote it and shook the conscience of a nation. Or One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich — Solzhenitsyn exposed a system through one man’s suffering. Even Allende herself — her House of the Spirits gave voice to Chile’s buried ghosts. Stories are revolutions whispered in the language of empathy.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t stop dictators.”

Jeeny: “No, but it starts resistance.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as though answers might be carved in the plaster.

Jack: “You sound like you believe writers are prophets.”

Jeeny: “Not prophets. Witnesses. Someone has to testify for what the world tries to forget.”

Jack: “Witnesses get shot.”

Jeeny: “So do the silent.”

Host: The tension in the room thickened, like air before a storm. A single ray of sunlight broke free from the blinds, falling across the desk, highlighting the old photograph lying there — two young faces, bright with idealism, before the world had taught them restraint.

Jack noticed Jeeny’s gaze fall on it.

Jeeny: “You never told me about her.”

Jack: “Because that story isn’t mine to tell anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still keep it on your desk?”

Jack: “Because I don’t know how to let it go. Some stories haunt you not because they’re unfinished, but because they ended the wrong way.”

Host: The silence after his words was heavy — like a wound reopened just enough to breathe. The rain began, slow and delicate, tapping against the windowpane like a hesitant confession.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Allende meant — that stories don’t leave us because they’re unfinished, but because they still have something to teach us. Justice, loyalty, violence — they don’t stop haunting until we understand them.”

Jack: “You sound like you romanticize pain.”

Jeeny: “No. I respect it. Pain’s a terrible teacher, but it’s the only one we never ignore.”

Host: Jack reached for the bottle, poured another drink, and watched the amber liquid catch the light. His voice dropped lower, rougher.

Jack: “When I was in Baghdad, I saw a kid — twelve, maybe — walk through a street littered with shell casings. He was holding a cracked mirror. Just walking. Looking at himself. The kind of image that burns itself into you. I tried to write about it. I couldn’t. Every time I did, it turned into propaganda. Like I was stealing his silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you weren’t supposed to speak for him. Maybe you were supposed to remember him — and let the story find you when you’re ready.”

Jack: “What if I never am?”

Jeeny: “Then the haunting continues. But that’s okay. It’s proof you still care.”

Host: A single bolt of lightning flashed through the sky, casting their faces in stark relief — one marked by cynicism, the other by conviction.

Jack: “Justice, loyalty, death… big words. They sell books, sure. But when you’ve seen what they look like up close, they lose their meaning.”

Jeeny: “No, they lose their certainty. Meaning is something we keep rebuilding. Every time someone tells the truth in a world that prefers lies — meaning is reborn.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his eyes catching hers in the dim light. The rain thickened outside, and the sound filled the space between them.

Jack: “You ever wonder why writers keep returning to the same themes? Justice, freedom, death — it’s like we’re stuck in a loop.”

Jeeny: “Because those are the questions that never get answered. Every generation asks them again, hoping this time, the ending changes.”

Jack: “And it never does.”

Jeeny: “But it changes us. Every story, every voice — it leaves a mark. That’s evolution in disguise.”

Host: The clock ticked softly in the background. The rain slowed, becoming a steady rhythm — like the heartbeat of the earth calming after a storm.

Jack looked at the typewriter, its keys gleaming faintly, waiting.

Jack: “You think Allende writes to heal?”

Jeeny: “I think she writes to survive. To keep the ghosts from turning to silence.”

Jack: “And if writing doesn’t heal?”

Jeeny: “Then it reminds you you’re still alive enough to hurt.”

Host: Jack stared at the blank page in the machine. The rainlight shimmered against its whiteness, pure and accusing. Slowly, he placed his hands on the keys, his fingers trembling slightly.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why the stories haunt me. They’re not demanding to be written. They’re demanding to be felt.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Some stories don’t want endings, Jack. They want witnesses.”

Host: The sound of typing began — hesitant at first, then stronger, more certain. Jeeny smiled faintly, stepping back toward the window, watching the last of the storm clouds drift away.

The room filled with the rhythm of creation — that fragile defiance against silence.

Jeeny turned, her voice soft but certain: “Stories haunt us because they’re alive. And the moment you stop feeling haunted, Jack, is the moment you’ve stopped being human.”

Host: The typing stopped. Jack looked up, a single tear tracing down the side of his face, cutting through the years of wear.

He whispered, “Then I’ll keep haunting myself.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly. The rain outside had ended. Through the window, the city glowed — alive, wounded, beautiful.

The light fell across Jack’s desk, catching the edge of the page where the first line now lived, trembling in the half-dark:

“Every story begins as a ghost. It’s up to us to give it a voice.”

And as the scene faded, Isabel Allende’s truth lingered — timeless, luminous, and haunting:

Stories are not written to escape life, but to confront it — to speak where silence dares not.