I believe that if writers want their readers to care about a

Host: The morning broke pale and misty over the city, the kind of light that blurs the edges of buildings and memories alike. The café on the corner of Camden High Street was half empty — the steam from kettles curling like smoke around the old wooden tables. The smell of coffee hung thick in the air, mingling with faint music from a dusty jukebox in the corner — an old country song that spoke of loss and second chances.

At a table near the window, Jack sat with his coat draped over the back of his chair, a notebook open before him, its pages scarred with restless scribbles. His grey eyes scanned the street outside — faces, stories, ghosts passing by — all of them potential characters he’d never write.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea slowly, the spoon clinking like a clock marking moments she didn’t want to end. She was watching him, the way she often did — as though reading a book written behind his eyes.

Host: The light from the window caught the dust in the air, turning it into drifting stars between them.

Jeeny: “You’ve been stuck on that page for twenty minutes, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m not stuck. I’m… editing.”

Jeeny: “You mean you’re fighting with yourself again.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: He sighed, leaned back, and let the chair creak — an old, tired sound that belonged to men who’d lived too long inside their own thoughts.

Jeeny: “Mark Billingham once said something I think about a lot: ‘I believe that if writers want their readers to care about a character, they have to care themselves.’ Do you care about yours, Jack?”

Jack: “Of course I do.”

Jeeny: “Then why do they all end up miserable, alone, and half-drunk by chapter ten?”

Jack: “Because that’s life.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s your life. You write people like you’re punishing them for existing.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, sharp but not cruel. Outside, a bus rumbled past, splashing through a shallow puddle, and a child’s laughter cut through the morning haze like a blade of light.

Jack: “You make it sound simple. Caring about a character. But it’s not. When you care too much, you stop writing the truth. You start protecting them. You soften their flaws. You turn them into lies.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the lie is pretending that flaws make someone unworthy of compassion.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his pen, his knuckles pale.

Jack: “You think I should root for them when they screw up? When they ruin everything?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s when they need you most.”

Host: He looked up at her then, eyes hard, but beneath the surface there was something — fear, maybe. Or grief disguised as cynicism.

Jack: “You’re talking about Thorne, aren’t you? Billingham’s detective.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He said Thorne screws up all the time. But he roots for him anyway. Because he sees himself in him. That’s why readers care — because the writer does.”

Jack: “That’s different. Thorne’s fiction. I deal with reality.”

Jeeny: “Do you?”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “You write stories, Jack. But the truth is — you write yourself. Every broken man, every lonely woman, every failed redemption — it’s all you, cut into smaller pieces.”

Host: The music changed — an old Johnny Cash tune now — deep, slow, steady, like a heartbeat through whiskey.

Jack: “You think I write to confess?”

Jeeny: “I think you write to survive. But somewhere along the way, you stopped caring about the people you created. You turned them into mirrors instead of souls.”

Jack: “You talk like they’re real.”

Jeeny: “They are. If you care enough, they are.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose between them, blurring their faces for a second — two figures fading into a cloud of thought.

Jack: “You want me to care. But caring hurts. Every time I give a character something good, I have to take it away to make the story honest. Because life takes. That’s the only truth that never fails.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what if caring isn’t about giving them happy endings? What if it’s about not turning away when they fall?”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the faint smell of rain. The world outside looked distant — like a scene written by someone else.

Jack: “You sound like you think writers are gods.”

Jeeny: “No. More like parents. You give life, but you can’t control how it unfolds. You can only love what you make — even when it breaks your heart.”

Host: Jack’s pen trembled. He wrote something — a name — then crossed it out. Again. And again.

Jeeny: “You once told me your first story ended with the main character forgiving himself.”

Jack: “It did.”

Jeeny: “And then you rewrote it, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because it felt too easy. Too sentimental.”

Jeeny: “Or because you couldn’t forgive yourself either.”

Host: He looked away, his eyes on the street, where a man stood under an umbrella, talking softly to someone through his phone. The world kept moving — unbothered, unhealed.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every time I start a new story, I tell myself I’ll write someone different. Someone lighter. But they always end up the same — haunted. Like I can’t write hope without lying.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you need to start caring again — not about perfection, but about humanity. About their mistakes, their messy love, their failure to fix themselves. That’s what makes readers care. That’s what makes you care.”

Host: A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, landing across the table — half on her face, half on his notebook. It was faint, but it lingered.

Jack: “You really believe a writer has to love his characters?”

Jeeny: “Not love. Understand. Root for them the way you’d root for yourself if you were brave enough.”

Host: He let the words sink in — slow, deliberate, like coffee cooling in a forgotten cup. Then he closed his notebook.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I stopped finishing stories.”

Jeeny: “Because you stopped believing in people.”

Jack: “Because I stopped believing in me.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table and laid her hand over his. It was warm — real — and for a moment, the world outside the café faded.

Jeeny: “Then write someone who believes again. Start with that.”

Jack: “You think anyone would care?”

Jeeny: “If you do.”

Host: The jukebox clicked, and another country song began — soft, hopeful, just a touch of melancholy. Jack smiled faintly. He flipped open the notebook once more, his pen hovering above the page.

He wrote: “He wasn’t perfect, but he tried.”

Host: And in that small act — a sentence, a surrender — something shifted.

Outside, the sunlight cut through the mist, and the city came alive — horns, footsteps, laughter. Inside the café, two souls sat quietly, one writing, one watching, both believing again — in the power to care.

And somewhere, in the echo of country music and the whisper of pages turning, a story began — not of perfection, but of forgiveness.

A story that finally had a heart.