Every book I've written has been a different attempt to

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, like a canvas smudged with smoke and rainlight. A single lamp flickered above a bookstore café, its windows misted with the breath of countless readers who once sat there, chasing their thoughts through paper and ink. Inside, Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes tracing the movement of raindrops sliding down the glass. Across from him, Jeeny held a notebook, her fingers tapping lightly, as if keeping time with the heartbeat of her own ideas. The air smelled of coffee, paper, and a faint melancholy.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it means to create something… just because you need to? Yann Martel once said, ‘Every book I’ve written has been a different attempt to understand something, and the success or failure of the previous one is irrelevant. I write the book I want.’ That’s not just about writing, Jack — it’s about living.”

Jack: smirking faintly “That’s easy to say when your books are successful. It’s a luxury to claim that failure is irrelevant when the world actually cares about what you create.”

Host: The rain tapped harder against the window, like fingers drumming on glass in quiet impatience. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed soft — the softness of someone who believed that truth could still be gentle.

Jeeny: “You think it’s about luxury? No, Jack. It’s about honesty. About understanding something — not because it’s profitable, not because it pleases anyone, but because your own mind refuses to stay silent. Every person who’s ever tried to make sense of the world — philosophers, artists, even scientists — they weren’t chasing applause. They were chasing understanding.”

Jack: “Maybe. But they also knew that understanding doesn’t pay the rent. Look at Van Gogh — he painted because he had to, sure, but he died broke, alone, and half-mad. The world didn’t give a damn about his ‘attempt to understand’ until it could hang a price tag on it. Tell me, Jeeny — what’s the point of art that no one sees?”

Host: The words landed like stones across the table. For a moment, only the sound of the rain filled the space — the soft, steady rhythm of a world indifferent to human justification.

Jeeny: “The point,” she said quietly, “is that he saw it. That’s enough. Van Gogh didn’t paint to be seen; he painted to survive himself. Just like Martel writes to understand — not to be understood. The act itself is the victory.”

Jack: “That’s poetic,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “but naïve. You’re romanticizing the idea of isolation. You think purpose exists in a vacuum? No, Jeeny. Creation is a transaction. You give something to the world, and the world either accepts or rejects it. That reaction defines its value — and yours.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, blending with the dim light, a ghostly ribbon between them. Jeeny’s brow furrowed as she leaned forward, her voice trembling with the quiet fire of belief.

Jeeny: “So by your logic, if no one buys a book, it was never worth writing? That’s terrifying, Jack. Imagine if Einstein stopped because his early papers weren’t recognized. Or if Galileo had stayed silent because no one listened. The world’s reaction doesn’t define the truth of what we make.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t keep you warm, Jeeny. Recognition does. People need validation — even geniuses. Why else would they publish at all? If you only write for yourself, why show it to the world?”

Jeeny: “Because creation is communication, not commerce. You don’t write for applause; you write because silence hurts. You share it not for validation, but for connection — even if it’s with one person, a century later.”

Host: A bus groaned past the café, splashing rainwater across the sidewalk. The light outside flickered, and for a moment, the two faces were caught in a brief flash — one lined with skepticism, the other burning with faith. The air thickened with the weight of their opposing worlds.

Jack: “Let me ask you this, then. What if you pour your life into something, and it still fails — utterly? You give it everything, and no one reads it, no one cares. Would you still call that success?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “Because the act of creation changes you, even if it changes no one else. That’s what Martel meant. Each attempt is an understanding — not of the world, but of yourself.”

Jack: “That sounds comforting, but it’s self-deception. The world runs on outcomes, Jeeny, not intentions. Look at publishing — or film, or business. People measure worth in success, not sincerity.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why we’re all so lost — because we keep measuring the wrong things. When did sincerity become irrelevant, Jack? When did the attempt stop mattering?”

Host: The rain softened, as if the sky itself leaned in to listen. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette had become a thin ribbon, fading slowly into the ceiling’s shadow. His eyes shifted, their hardness cracking slightly under the weight of her words.

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending failure.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her voice steady now. “I’m defending integrity. The kind that doesn’t bow to the crowd. Martel writes the book he wants — not the book people expect. That’s courage, Jack. Maybe the rarest kind.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tight, his mind visibly turning. The cigarette’s ember glowed like a small, dying sun between his fingers.

Jack: “So what — we should all just follow our whims and call it wisdom? What about responsibility? What about the audience? Doesn’t a writer owe something to those who read?”

Jeeny: “He owes them truth. Nothing else. And sometimes truth means being misunderstood. Dostoevsky wrote The Brothers Karamazov knowing half his readers would hate it — but he wrote it anyway. He wasn’t selling entertainment; he was exploring salvation and sin.”

Jack: quietly “And yet… he still hoped people would read it.”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. Hope is not compromise. It’s the bridge between solitude and connection. You can want to be heard without writing to please.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — slow, insistent, like the heartbeat of time itself. The rain had stopped, leaving a film of silver water on the streets. The barista wiped the counter, glancing once at the pair, sensing the invisible charge between them.

Jack: sighing “You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But maybe I envy that kind of faith. I’ve written things too — proposals, reports, even a few stories. None of them mattered. Maybe I stopped believing that creation can exist without reward.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe it’s not belief you lost, Jack. Maybe it’s wonder.”

Host: The word hung between them, shimmering like light in the last drop of rain. Jack looked away, his reflection fractured in the windowpane — a man caught between ambition and emptiness.

Jack: “You think it’s still possible — to do something just for the sake of understanding?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only thing that ever changes us. Every time we try — every book, every idea, every heartbreak — it’s another attempt to understand something. That’s what keeps us alive.”

Host: A silence fell — the kind that feels less like absence and more like recognition. The light shifted, turning gold as the clouds parted. For the first time, Jack smiled — not in sarcasm, but in surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the success or failure of what we make isn’t the point. Maybe it’s just… the making.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. The making is the understanding. The rest is noise.”

Host: Outside, the city exhaled — rain-slick streets glowing beneath lamplight, the sound of distant traffic like an old rhythm returning. Inside the café, two voices had reached an understanding — not of each other, but of the same truth from different angles.

Host: And as the clock struck midnight, Jack stubbed out his cigarette, and Jeeny closed her notebook. The world outside kept moving, but for one small moment, understanding — like art — existed for its own sake.