For the last 20 years of my life, I've had the mantra to do

Host: The soundstage was nearly silent now, long after the last crew member had left. A single light hung overhead, buzzing faintly, throwing shadows across the unfinished set — a living room without a ceiling, a world waiting for breath. The air smelled of sawdust, coffee, and faint cigarette smoke, ghosts of creation lingering in the dark.

Jack sat on a folding chair, his hands clasped, a stack of worn scripts on the table beside him. The weight of a thousand unfinished stories seemed to hang in his posture. Across the stage, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her hair loose, her eyes lit by the blue glow of an old film projector that hummed in the corner.

Jeeny: “John Hawkes once said, ‘For the last 20 years of my life, I’ve had the mantra to do amazing parts with amazing people in amazing projects… I’m attracted to good story, writing, and character — and good people. That’s what I’m always searching for, and I don’t think that’s ever going to change.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “A nice sentiment. Idealistic. Maybe even naïve.”

Host: The projector light flickered over them, illuminating dust motes like fragments of memory suspended in air. The room itself seemed to breathe — slow, tired, but not without longing.

Jeeny: (crossing her arms) “Naïve? Or human? What else are we supposed to chase, Jack, if not stories and people who make life worth the noise?”

Jack: “Sustainability, for one. Stability. People romanticize passion, but passion doesn’t pay rent. It burns bright, then leaves you with ashes.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between existing and living. You can survive without fire, Jack. You just can’t create without it.”

Host: A pause stretched between them — not empty, but full. The faint hum of the city beyond the walls crept in through the vents, the heartbeat of a world that didn’t care about art or meaning.

Jack: “You really think this ‘amazing people, amazing projects’ mantra holds up? You get older, your ideals shrink. You start choosing what keeps you safe, not what makes you feel.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when you start dying, piece by piece.”

Jack: (chuckles softly) “You make it sound dramatic.”

Jeeny: “It is dramatic. That’s the tragedy — most people die before they ever live. John Hawkes understood that. He’s not chasing fame or safety. He’s chasing depth. Truth. That rare combination of good work and good souls.”

Host: The projector clicked as the film reached its end, the reel spinning in empty motion. Jeeny walked over, stopping it, then stood in the quiet that followed — that sacred hush of creation unobserved.

Jeeny: “You’ve been chasing safety your whole life, haven’t you?”

Jack: (smirks, but his tone falters) “I call it discipline.”

Jeeny: “No, you call it control. But deep down, you miss the chaos — the kind that makes art real.”

Host: Jack looked up finally. His grey eyes caught the light, cold at first, then softening, revealing something raw beneath the surface.

Jack: “You think chasing amazing people guarantees amazing outcomes? It doesn’t. You end up disappointed when the project falls apart or when people aren’t who you thought they were.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that disappointment is still life. It means you cared. I’d rather be bruised by beauty than untouched by mediocrity.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But reckless. People like you — you burn out.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “And people like you — you fade.”

Host: The words landed like a quiet strike. Jack’s fingers tightened around the script, the paper crinkling under his grip. The air shifted. Outside, a car horn blared faintly — the distant call of a world that would move on, with or without them.

Jack: “So you really think it’s worth it? The instability, the rejection, the constant starting over — just for a good story?”

Jeeny: “For the right story, yes. For the right people, always.”

Jack: (leans forward) “And what if they never come?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll keep searching. Because that’s the point, isn’t it? Hawkes didn’t say he found amazing people — he said he’s searching. Maybe the search itself is the art.”

Host: Her voice softened, becoming almost tender, and Jack looked at her — really looked — as though seeing her for the first time in years. The light from the projector flickered across her face, painting her features in ghostly silver.

Jack: “You ever get tired of believing there’s still something amazing left to find?”

Jeeny: “Every day. And that’s exactly why I have to keep believing it.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths. Jack’s gaze drifted to the scripts beside him, each one a story that never quite became what it promised. He picked one up, flipping through its pages slowly, like someone reopening an old wound.

Jack: “You know, I used to feel that way. When I first started directing, every scene felt like a revelation. Every actor — a miracle waiting to happen. Then reality taught me that people disappoint. Projects collapse. Money wins.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are. Still chasing it.”

Jack: (half a smile) “Habit.”

Jeeny: “No. Hope.”

Host: The light bulb above them began to buzz louder, as if amplifying the truth hanging between them. The script in Jack’s hand trembled slightly as his grip loosened.

Jack: “You really think it never changes? That after twenty years of chasing the impossible, you still wake up and want more?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every once in a while, it works. You meet someone extraordinary, or you tell a story that matters. And in that moment — even if it’s brief — it all makes sense.”

Jack: (quietly) “Like lightning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t live waiting for lightning. But you can live ready for it.”

Host: Jack looked down at the script, then at Jeeny. Slowly, he stood, walked to the projector, and slipped the film reel back in. The soft whirring began again — light flickering across the empty set, images forming on the half-built wall: two actors frozen mid-laughter.

Jack: “You think that’s what Hawkes meant? That the search — the constant reaching — is what keeps us alive?”

Jeeny: “Not just alive. Human.”

Host: Jack exhaled, his breath visible in the chill of the room. Something in his posture shifted — less guarded now, more awake.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong thing. The success, the acclaim… when maybe it was always about the people.”

Jeeny: “It always is.”

Host: The film flickered to a stop, the light holding for a brief, golden second before fading. In the dimness that followed, the world felt suspended — the kind of silence that exists just before revelation.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Every great story — every truly amazing one — starts with two things: a person who believes, and a person who doubts.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “And which one are you?”

Jeeny: “Both. Depending on the day.”

Host: Jack laughed softly — the sound low, sincere, like the release of something long held.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the secret. Maybe the search isn’t about finding amazing people — maybe it’s about becoming one.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to sound like an artist again.”

Host: Outside, the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the set wall, casting long stripes of silver across the floor. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, watching the light spill into their unfinished world.

Jack: (softly) “Then let’s build something amazing.”

Jeeny: “Together.”

Host: The camera would have panned wide then — capturing the light, the set, the two figures silhouetted against the fragile bloom of morning. The hum of creation vibrated faintly in the air, as if the universe itself was waiting for the next line of the script.

And in that still moment — between exhaustion and awakening — the truth of Hawkes’ words lived quietly, brilliantly:

The search never ends. Because the search is the art itself.