But whatever my failure, I have this thing to remember - that I

Host: The desert had swallowed the horizon — a long, wind-bitten expanse under a bruised sky, painted with the dying glow of dusk. The small wooden cabin sat alone, half-buried in dust, its single window flickering with the light of a stubborn lantern. Inside, the smell of ink, whiskey, and solitude hung heavy in the air.

Stacks of manuscripts lay scattered across the rough table — yellowed, dog-eared, full of characters who refused to die. Robert E. Howard’s world — heroes, barbarians, dreamers — lived in those pages. And tonight, that legacy belonged to Jack, sitting at the same table, shoulders bent over a typewriter, his fingers resting but not moving.

Jeeny stood by the door, a shawl draped over her shoulders, her eyes reflecting both the firelight and the weariness of understanding too much about struggle and creation.

The wind outside howled through the cracks — a lonely sound that made every failure feel older than time.

Jeeny: “Robert E. Howard once said, ‘But whatever my failure, I have this thing to remember — that I was a pioneer in my profession, just as my grandfathers were in theirs, in that I was the first man in this section to earn his living as a writer.’”

Jack: (without lifting his eyes) “A man trying to console himself for being forgotten.”

Jeeny: “No. A man reminding himself that being first sometimes matters more than being remembered.”

Jack: (scoffing softly) “First or last — the grave doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But history does. And somewhere between the grave and glory, there’s a moment — the one where you do something no one else has done — that’s where life’s meaning hides.”

Host: The wind pressed against the walls, the boards creaking like an old ship on a restless sea. The lamp flickered, casting long, trembling shadows across the manuscripts — the ghosts of words waiting to be understood.

Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, his voice low but steady.

Jack: “You ever think pioneers are just people who went too far in the wrong direction and never made it back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But they went. That’s the difference. Most people never even leave.”

Jack: “And what does it buy them? Isolation. Mockery. Regret.”

Jeeny: “And immortality, sometimes. Howard didn’t live to see it, but Conan outlived him. That’s the irony of art — your failure might just be your seed.”

Host: Jack looked up then, eyes meeting hers. His expression softened — not surrender, but curiosity, the kind that always came when she spoke of purpose instead of praise.

Jack: “You think he really believed it — that line about being a pioneer? Or was it just armor against disappointment?”

Jeeny: “It was both. You can’t be a pioneer without pain. Every first step forward scrapes against indifference. Every invention begins as loneliness.”

Jack: “You make struggle sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “No. I make it sacred.”

Host: She walked toward the desk, her fingers brushing one of the manuscripts — the pages trembling slightly in the wind that slipped through the cracks.

Jeeny: “He was the first man in his town to earn his living from words. Can you imagine that kind of courage? To tell a world of farmers and steelworkers, ‘I will fight my battles with ink’? That’s rebellion.”

Jack: “Or madness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe those are the same thing. Maybe every writer’s a little mad — trying to plant eternity in paper soil.”

Host: The fire cracked in the small hearth, casting fleeting warmth across the room. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the desk, staring at the half-written page in the typewriter.

Jack: “You know, I get it. That hunger to matter. To know the work you leave behind wasn’t just noise.”

Jeeny: “But you keep forgetting, Jack — being a pioneer isn’t about mattering to others. It’s about proving the impossible to yourself.”

Jack: “That sounds like a lonely victory.”

Jeeny: “All true victories are.”

Host: The silence stretched again, broken only by the wind clawing against the windowpane. It was the sound of the world reminding them that it doesn’t stop for dreamers.

Jeeny sat down opposite him, her voice quieter now — like the echo of something both tender and raw.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s not proud. It’s grateful. He admits his failure, but he honors his attempt. That’s rare.”

Jack: “Gratitude in the face of futility.”

Jeeny: “No — gratitude for participation. For having joined the story at all.”

Host: She leaned closer, her hand resting lightly on one of his scattered pages — the kind of gesture that didn’t comfort, but grounded.

Jeeny: “He says, ‘I was the first man in this section to earn his living as a writer.’ Not famous, not celebrated — just first. That means something. It means he built the road others would walk.”

Jack: “And died before they thanked him.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of being early.”

Jack: “You ever think maybe it’s not worth it?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then don’t be first. Be next. But if you are first, understand the loneliness is part of the inheritance.”

Host: The lamp flickered again, threatening to go out. Jack rose and turned the knob, brightening the flame. The light filled the room once more — brief defiance against darkness.

Jack: “You know, maybe Howard wasn’t consoling himself after all. Maybe he was reminding himself that failure’s just what it looks like when you’re ahead of your time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t defeated — he was unfinished.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s a better epitaph than most.”

Jeeny: “It’s the truth of every creator. The world rarely catches up in time.”

Host: The sound of the wind softened, fading into quiet. The air seemed to settle — the kind of peace that follows understanding.

Jack looked down at the page in his typewriter again. Slowly, deliberately, he began to type. The clicks of the keys echoed like a resurrection — each one a pulse of belief reborn.

Jeeny watched him, her expression warm, proud, alive.

Jeeny: “See? You’re doing what he did — building something no one may ever thank you for.”

Jack: “And you’re reminding me that it’s still worth it.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The fire burned lower, but its glow reached further now — stretching across the walls, touching the scattered pages, making the whole room flicker with quiet promise.

And in that fragile stillness, Robert E. Howard’s words lived again — not as self-pity, but as testament:

That failure is not the opposite of pioneering,
but its companion.

That to be first is to walk into darkness,
trusting that someday,
someone will call it light.

And that no life lived in creation
is ever a waste,
because even if the world forgets your name,
it still walks on the road
you built out of your courage.

Host: Outside, the wind quieted.
The night stood still.
And inside that little cabin,
Jack kept typing —
the soft, steady sound of a man
who had finally made peace
with being a pioneer.