I believe my publisher has shown a great deal of faith in me over

Host: The city was drowning in rain — a steady, relentless curtain that turned every streetlight into a halo and every shadow into a memory. The windows of a small, independent bookstore glowed with a soft, amber light, standing like a sanctuary in the middle of the storm. Inside, the smell of old paper, ink, and coffee wrapped around the air like an old coat.

It was past midnight. The shop was closed to the world, but two people remained.

Jack sat at a wooden table, surrounded by stacks of unsold books, their spines faded from years of hope. A single candle flickered beside him, its flame trembling with every gust from the half-open door.

Jeeny leaned against a nearby shelf, her arms crossed, her eyes soft but sharp, watching him as if she could see the battle he wasn’t saying aloud.

A line from Andrew Vachss — half humility, half confession — had sparked something between them:
"I believe my publisher has shown a great deal of faith in me over a lot of years, but I'm not prepared to be so arrogant to say that the long-term literary value of my work would compensate them for a financial failure."

And in that dim, flickering light, the meaning of it — of faith, of worth, of art versus survival — began to unfold.

Jack: “You know what I like about that quote? It’s honest. No romantic nonsense about art saving the world. Just a man admitting that his words might not be worth the money people risk on him. That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Rare, maybe. But also sad. Isn’t that the point of faith? You do something because it matters, not because it pays. If every writer only wrote what could sell, we’d still be reading grocery lists instead of literature.”

Host: Jack let out a short laugh, dry as paper. He reached for one of his own books, thumbed the pages, the sound of it like the fluttering wings of something caged.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never had to choose between rent and meaning. The truth is, Jeeny, the world doesn’t care about value — not the kind you can’t count. You can’t eat integrity, and you can’t pay your editor with legacy.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of creating anything, Jack? Why not just calculate your life like an accountant — numbers, returns, margins, nothing more? Vachss wasn’t rejecting art; he was humbling himself before it. He knew that faith from others — like his publisher’s — was a kind of sacred trust. One you don’t take for granted.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the windows, drumming like an impatient audience. Jack stared at the candle, its flame twisting, throwing long shadows across his face.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t keep the lights on, Jeeny. It’s a luxury for those who haven’t been disappointed enough. You want to know what publishing really is? It’s gambling. You put your heart on the table, and someone bets on whether the world will notice before you’re broke.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every gambler hopes. Every publisher who believes in a writer is saying, ‘I trust that this story is worth losing for.’ That’s not arrogance, Jack — that’s devotion. You think Vachss was just being practical? No. He was being grateful. He understood that his words were a burden someone else chose to carry.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer now, her voice low, steady — but alive with conviction. Jack looked up at her, his grey eyes reflecting both challenge and weariness.

Jack: “Gratitude doesn’t pay the printer. You can drown in thank-yous and still be nothing but a failure on paper. Art’s not holy, Jeeny — it’s a transaction. And sooner or later, everyone wants their investment back.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re selling to the wrong people.”

Host: Silence fell — heavy, almost sacred. The kind that sits between two truths, each too proud to yield. The candlelight flickered, catching the rain running down the window like liquid silver.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny. What would you do if your faith in something — or someone — started costing you everything?”

Jeeny: “Keep believing. Because the alternative is to live without faith — and that’s a kind of death too. Vachss didn’t say faith was profitable, Jack. He said it was human. His publisher believed in his voice, not his sales figures. That’s what made it sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred doesn’t survive in this market. The world runs on proof, not promises.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the only reason anyone still writes, or reads, or publishes anything at all, is because of promises — the promise that words can still matter, that stories can still touch someone. Maybe the faith Vachss talked about wasn’t about money. Maybe it was about hope.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, mingling with the faint hiss of rain outside. Jack leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the shadows deepening under his eyes.

Jack: “Hope’s a dangerous currency, Jeeny. It spends easy and pays nothing back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s priceless.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The sound of the rain softened — or maybe the silence grew louder. Jack’s hand rested on the cover of his book, his thumb tracing his own name, as though he were questioning its weight.

Jack: “You really believe there’s dignity in failing gracefully?”

Jeeny: “I believe there’s dignity in trying honestly. The way Vachss did. The way you do. When someone puts faith in you, Jack — a publisher, a reader, a friend — you don’t pay them back with success. You pay them back with truth.”

Jack: softly “Truth doesn’t keep a roof over your head.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps a roof over your soul.”

Host: The flame wavered, then caught itself, steadying. Jack’s expression changed — not softened, not broken, but realigned — as though a truth he had resisted for too long finally found a way through the cracks.

Jack: “So maybe that’s what he meant. That arrogance isn’t believing your work has value — it’s believing it has enough value to justify someone else’s loss.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s a balance — between faith and humility. Between wanting to be understood, and accepting that maybe you won’t be.”

Host: Outside, the storm began to ease. The last drops slid down the glass, glowing like tiny comets under the streetlights. Jeeny reached across the table, gently closing Jack’s book, her hand lingering just a moment.

Jeeny: “Maybe your work won’t make you rich, Jack. But maybe one line — one sentence — will change how someone sees the world. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

Jack: “Maybe. If I can believe it’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Then start there. Believe.”

Host: The candle burned low, its wax spilling down like tears, but its light steady, unbroken.

Jack leaned back, eyes lifted toward the ceiling — where the flicker of flame painted faint, moving patterns, like stories written in smoke.

Jack: “Maybe the point isn’t to prove your worth. Maybe it’s just to keep writing until the faith someone had in you feels deserved.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “And that, Jack… is what makes it art.”

Host: Outside, the storm stopped. The streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, the world washed clean again. Inside the bookstore, the candlelight danced across the books — all those fragile testaments to faith, waiting quietly to be found.

And for the first time that night, Jack’s silence didn’t sound like defeat. It sounded like a man beginning again — with nothing to prove, and everything to believe.