I always knew I'd keep at it with the plodding doggedness that I

Host: The afternoon light was tired, its gold already thinning into grey, as if the sky itself were exhaling after a long day. Inside a small suburban office, the hum of computers and the clicking of keyboards formed a kind of mechanical heartbeat. Paper stacks, half-empty mugs, and sticky notes were scattered across desks like battle scars from an endless routine.

Jack sat near the window, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a half-finished report glowing on his screen. Jeeny stood by the coffee machine, waiting for it to drip, her eyes distant, as though she were watching another life play out in her mind.

Host: The office clock ticked loudly, each second a reminder of the time that passed for people who once had dreams but now only had deadlines.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, “MaryJanice Davidson once wrote, ‘I always knew I'd keep at it with the plodding doggedness that I used to master lump-less gravy and wriggle out of fitness classes; I always knew I'd get a zillion rejection slips. I figured I'd write part time while working various full-time office jobs, and maybe, maybe in my 50s, I'd be able to quit and try writing full time.’”

Jack: “Sounds like the anthem of every dreamer stuck in an office chair.”

Jeeny: “Or the confession of someone who refused to quit, even when life tried to bury her.”

Jack: “You call that refusal? I call it delusion. Some people chase a dream their whole lives and never catch it. That’s not heroism, Jeeny. That’s stubbornness dressed up as hope.”

Host: A printer whirred to life in the background, its sound like a small engine of futility, spitting out pages no one really wanted to read.

Jeeny: “You’ve got it all backwards, Jack. The world doesn’t owe us a breakthrough. It owes us nothing. But to keep trying, even when you know the odds — that’s what makes it meaningful.”

Jack: “Meaningful? She said she expected a zillion rejection slips. You really think that’s meaningful? Sounds more like punishment.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s discipline. That’s grit. You call it punishment because you think success has to be instant. But most of the beauty in life is slow-cooked — like her gravy metaphor. You stir, you fail, you stir again, until it’s smooth.”

Jack: “Or until you burn it.”

Host: The coffee machine clicked off. Jeeny poured the coffee, the steam rising in lazy spirals, like the ghost of a dream that refused to die.

Jeeny: “Even if you burn it, you learn how not to next time. That’s how she wrote her books, Jack. That’s how anyone creates something that lasts — one failure, one lesson, one page at a time.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing failure, Jeeny. There’s a difference between persistence and self-deception. Most people who keep ‘plodding’ like that just waste their years. They wake up at fifty and realize the world moved on without them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least they moved toward something. Most people just stand still — comfortable, secure, and empty.”

Host: Jack’s fingers paused on the keyboard, his grey eyes focused on a single line of text. The cursor blinked, as if waiting for him to decide whether to continue or erase.

Jack: “You think I don’t get it? I used to write, too. Short stories, essays, even started a novel once. But then the bills came, and rent, and reality. I had to choose — dream or survival.”

Jeeny: “And you chose survival, but you call it realism. The truth is, you stopped believing in your own potential. You tell yourself it’s too late, but it’s only too late when you decide it is.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one fighting the numbers every month. You can’t live on hope.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can die without it.”

Host: The air between them tightened. The office around them blurred, as if the rest of the world had faded into a soft fog. Only the two of them remained — one burned out, one still burning.

Jack: “So what — you think doggedness alone is enough? You can just keep pushing, and somehow the universe will reward you for your effort?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the reward is in the pushing itself. That’s what Davidson meant. She wasn’t promised success — she just promised herself persistence. That’s the difference between waiting for a miracle and becoming one.”

Jack: “You sound like those motivational posters HR keeps hanging in the hallway.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But have you ever really looked at one, Jack? I mean, really looked? They’re corny, sure, but the truth behind them — that hard, quiet truth — is that nobody makes it without repetition. Without failing until you stop being afraid of failing.”

Host: A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, glancing off the windows, lighting up the dust in the air like a thousand tiny stars. Jack turned, the light catching the edges of his face, softening it.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I was a kid, I used to think people like Davidson were crazy — spending decades chasing something that might never happen. Now I see... maybe they were the only ones really living.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They lived with purpose, not certainty. That’s what keeps the heart alive — the plodding doggedness, the slow faith that tomorrow might hold something worthwhile, even if today doesn’t.”

Jack: “You really think it’s worth it? The years, the rejections, the doubt?”

Jeeny: “If it leads you closer to who you are, yes. The point isn’t to be famous, Jack. It’s to be faithful — to the work, to the craft, to the version of yourself that refuses to die quietly.”

Host: The clock ticked, louder now. Outside, the rain had started again, a gentle, rhythmic sound like typing on a keyboard — steady, endless, human.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But what if it’s just... lonely?”

Jeeny: “It is. But so is truth. So is growth. And yet we seek them anyway. Because comfort might keep us safe, but it also keeps us small.”

Jack: “And you? What are you plodding toward, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “A book. A real one. I write a little every night after work. Maybe no one will ever read it. Maybe I’ll get those zillion rejection slips too. But I’ll still write it.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the noise of the office fading beneath the weight of her words. A flicker of something — maybe envy, maybe admiration — passed through him.

Jack: “You know... maybe I’ll start writing again. Maybe one page at a time.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it ever takes. The rest is just time, coffee, and a lot of gravy without lumps.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound breaking the spell of monotony that had hung over the room. Outside, the rain stopped, and a thin beam of light cut across their desks, illuminating two coffee mugs side by side.

Host: The day wore on, but something in the air had shifted — something small, invisible, but real. Two office workers, two dreamers, quietly reminding each other that doggedness isn’t just endurance — it’s defiance.

Host: And as the clock hands moved, the scene faded, leaving only the sound of keys typing, steady, patient, alive — the kind of music that only plodding hearts ever learn to play.