Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality

Host: The night had the quiet pulse of creation — the kind of stillness that fills a studio after the day’s noise has died. Dust floated in the warm lamp light, catching in the air like thoughts that refused to settle. The walls were crowded with half-finished paintings, scribbled notes, and the lingering smell of turpentine and ink.

Jack sat at a scarred wooden desk, a fountain pen in his hand, a blank sheet of paper staring back at him like a dare. Across the room, Jeeny perched on a stool, sketching idly in her journal, the graphite whispering against the page.

On the desk between them, an open book lay under the lamp, and on its page glowed C. S. Lewis’s words:

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

Host: The room was thick with the scent of honesty — the kind that makes the heart ache before it heals. Outside, the wind brushed softly against the windowpane, carrying the faint hum of a sleeping city.

Jack: dryly “You know, Lewis always makes it sound so simple — just tell the truth. As if that’s the easy part.”

Jeeny: without looking up from her sketchbook “It’s the simplest and the hardest thing in the world. Truth doesn’t ask for talent. It asks for courage.”

Jack: “Courage?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because to tell the truth, you have to stop performing. You have to let go of being special.”

Jack: smirking “So you’re saying originality is just honesty without an ego.”

Jeeny: glancing up, smiling faintly “Exactly. And ego is what ruins most art — and most people.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. The lamplight caught in his grey eyes, sharp and thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, when I started writing, I wanted to be different. Every sentence had to sound clever, every line unique. But the more I tried, the more it all sounded fake. Like an imitation of originality.”

Jeeny: “Because it was. You can’t force originality any more than you can force love. It happens when you stop chasing it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the world doesn’t pay for honesty, Jeeny. It pays for novelty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But novelty dies fast. Truth endures.”

Host: A long silence followed. The faint hiss of the wind outside seemed to fill the space between their thoughts. Jack picked up his pen, twirling it between his fingers, then let it fall onto the paper with a soft click.

Jack: “So what, then? The secret to art is confession?”

Jeeny: “Not confession — recognition. You don’t have to bleed on the page; you just have to see clearly.”

Jack: half-smiling “C. S. Lewis would’ve liked you.”

Jeeny: “He’d have argued with me first.”

Jack: “Fair. But he’s right — all those great writers, painters, thinkers… none of them sat down saying, ‘I’ll be original today.’ They just tried to tell the truth about the world as they saw it.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. And the way each soul sees truth — that’s the fingerprint of originality.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its filament humming like an idea struggling to stay alive. Jeeny set down her pencil and walked over to the desk, looking down at Jack’s blank page.

Jeeny: “Why haven’t you started?”

Jack: “Because I keep trying to make it perfect before it even exists.”

Jeeny: quietly “Then you’re strangling it before it breathes.”

Jack: “That’s what fear does. Makes you think beauty can only come from control.”

Jeeny: “But truth comes from surrender.”

Host: The words hung in the air — soft, absolute. Jack looked at her, his expression shifting, the cynicism giving way to something fragile — an admission.

Jack: “You ever wonder if truth is enough? The world’s full of people shouting theirs — and somehow, it all sounds like noise.”

Jeeny: “That’s because most people shout to be heard, not to be understood. The truth only matters when it’s whispered honestly.”

Jack: “Whispered honestly… You make it sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “It is, Jack. Every act of truth-telling is a kind of prayer. You don’t write to impress — you write to align.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the window slightly, as if the night itself agreed. Jack leaned forward again, his pen hovering over the page, his hand trembling just enough to prove he cared.

Jack: “So I should stop trying to be original.”

Jeeny: “Stop trying to be anyone. Just write the thing that hurts. The thing that heals. The thing that’s real.”

Jack: half-laughing “You make it sound like therapy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe therapy and art are the same thing. Both are how we confess to being human.”

Host: The pen finally met the paper. The first line came hesitant, then sure. The room filled with the quiet sound of ink becoming truth.

Jeeny: watching him “See? There it is. The miracle Lewis was talking about — the moment you stop trying to be unique, and you become yourself instead.”

Jack: without looking up “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The lamp’s glow deepened, the edges of the room dissolving into warm shadow. Outside, the rain began to fall, tapping gently against the window — a rhythm of renewal.

Jack: finally setting his pen down “You know, Lewis was right about something else too.”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “That originality isn’t born of effort. It’s born of honesty — and maybe a little grace.”

Jeeny: smiling “Then you’ve already found both.”

Host: She walked back to her stool, the sound of her steps mingling with the rain. Jack reread his first line, then smiled — small, real, unforced. The kind of smile that comes only when something inside finds its place.

The camera pulled back — the lamp, the page, the two souls working quietly through the night — surrounded by the echo of creation’s oldest truth:

That originality is not invention but revelation;
that the world doesn’t need new noise,
only old truth spoken with a new heartbeat;
and that to be authentically human —
to tell the truth without fear —
is the only art that ever was,
and the only originality that ever will be.