As a rule, I am very skeptical of tying books to anniversaries. I

Host: The rain fell in soft, steady sheets against the bookshop window, blurring the world beyond into watercolor — headlights, umbrellas, reflections swirling together in liquid gold. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and coffee, the murmur of a jazz record turning lazily somewhere in the back.

Jack sat at a small corner table, a half-empty cup beside a stack of well-worn books. Jeeny was across from him, tracing the rim of her mug with a thoughtful finger, her eyes fixed not on the rain, but on him.

Between them, the conversation was alive — the kind that moves slowly, deliberately, like two minds circling the same question from opposite ends.

Jeeny: “You ever read what Erik Larson said about anniversaries? ‘As a rule, I am very skeptical of tying books to anniversaries. I don’t think readers care. I also feel that it just about guarantees that somebody else will be writing a book on the same subject, but being a former journalist, I’m always interested in, like, why write about something today? Why do it now?’”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah, that one stuck with me. It’s funny — most people chase anniversaries like they’re lifeboats for relevance. But Larson’s right. The date doesn’t make the story. The moment does.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ‘why now’ is always the real question. Not just for books — for anything we create. Why tell this story today?”

Host: The lamplight above them flickered, painting small halos of gold on their cups, their faces, the covers of the books around them. It was a night built for reflection — for the kind of conversation that turns quietly inward.

Jack: “You know what I think he’s really saying? That truth doesn’t need a milestone to be relevant. We use anniversaries to feel like we’re doing something important. But sometimes, they’re just distractions.”

Jeeny: “Like comfort zones dressed as deadlines.”

Jack: “Exactly. A way to avoid the harder question — not ‘what happened then?’ but ‘what does it mean now?’”

Host: Outside, the rain thickened, its rhythm like the turning of pages. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice soft but firm.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that? The best stories — the ones that last — they’re never about the event. They’re about the echo.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “The echo?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. The way a moment keeps vibrating through time. That’s what Larson’s after — not history frozen in amber, but history still breathing.”

Jack: “Like the Titanic isn’t really about the ship — it’s about hubris. The human need to test the gods.”

Jeeny: “And 9/11 isn’t about the towers — it’s about fragility. The illusion of safety.”

Jack: “So the real question for any storyteller is — what part of the past still demands our attention?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because relevance isn’t about dates. It’s about resonance.”

Host: The record in the background crackled softly, the trumpet sighing through a blue note. Jack turned the cup slowly in his hand, his reflection shimmering faintly in the surface of the dark liquid.

Jack: “You think people still care about meaning anymore? Or do we just want content — fast, digestible, forgotten tomorrow?”

Jeeny: “People ache for meaning. They just hide it under noise. That’s why writers like Larson matter — they cut through the distraction, they dig for context. They ask, ‘Why this? Why now?’ until something true comes up.”

Jack: (thoughtfully) “You know, it’s almost like journalism trained him for philosophy. The journalist asks, What happened? The philosopher asks, What does it reveal? And the artist asks, What does it change in me?”

Jeeny: “And the cynic asks, Who’s paying for it?”

Jack: (laughing) “Touché.”

Host: A small pause followed, the kind that isn’t silence but shared thought. The rain outside softened again, and for a moment, the sound of it felt like punctuation — commas between breaths.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people think anniversaries make something more valuable? Like, ‘Oh, it’s the 50th anniversary of this or that,’ as if the truth gets shinier with age.”

Jack: “Yeah. But the truth doesn’t age — we do. The anniversary is just a mirror to remind us how much we’ve changed since last we looked.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s just honest. A story’s worth isn’t in its timing. It’s in its timelessness.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — that quiet, knowing smile that comes when someone says something you’ve been trying to name for years.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Larson’s skepticism hits home. Because he’s not just talking about writing. He’s talking about how we remember. How we attach meaning to the calendar, when meaning really lives in the heart.”

Jack: “Yeah. Anniversaries don’t bring things back. They just give us permission to feel again.”

Jeeny: “So maybe the ‘why now’ is really about that — about giving people permission. To feel. To face. To re-examine what they thought they understood.”

Jack: (quietly) “To re-read the world.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The last customers were leaving, their voices hushed, their laughter gentle. The café lights dimmed a little, warm and forgiving.

Jeeny: “You know, you’d make a good editor. You ask the same question he does — why this story, why now?”

Jack: “That’s because I don’t trust nostalgia. It’s too easy. The present — that’s harder. It’s messy, unpredictable. But that’s where the living stories are.”

Jeeny: “Larson would agree. The past isn’t sacred — it’s instructive. But you have to meet it halfway, through the lens of today.”

Jack: “So the real art isn’t in reporting the past. It’s in translating it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The glass cleared, revealing the city outside — shining, washed clean, renewed. Jack looked out, then turned back to Jeeny.

Jack: “You know what the ‘why now’ is for me?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Because the world forgets fast. And stories — the good ones — are how we remember what should never be forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Then I guess that’s the point. Not to mark time, but to make it matter.”

Host: She closed her notebook, the faint snap of paper and pen echoing like closure. They sat there for a moment longer, surrounded by the quiet ghosts of books — thousands of lives, thousands of “why now”s waiting to be found.

Outside, the first light of dawn began to seep through the gray — faint but certain.

And as they stood to leave, Erik Larson’s truth lingered between them like a quiet echo in the air:

That relevance is not measured by anniversaries,
but by urgency — by the pulse of a question that won’t die.

That stories are not anchored in time,
but in need — the need to make sense of who we are,
and why this moment, this day,
still calls for the telling.

Because the why now
is what keeps history alive —
and the heart awake.