I can't write about nice, easy topics because that won't change

Host: The night was quiet, yet it vibrated with the faint hum of a city that never truly sleeps. Through the wide windows of a dimly lit café, the neon signs flickered in slow rhythms, their light washing the wooden tables in soft blue and gold.

Jack sat at the far corner, a laptop open, a half-empty cup beside him. The screen’s glow painted his face in a pale light, the lines of focus and fatigue etched deep. Across from him, Jeeny was sketching something in her notebook, her brow furrowed, her fingers smudged with ink.

It was late — too late for talk, yet exactly the kind of hour when truths arrive uninvited.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, why some people just can’t write about the easy things? You know — the sunsets, the coffee dates, the happy endings?”

Jack: “Because the world’s already full of that, maybe. People like their comfort stories. They don’t want to be shaken.”

Jeeny: “Jacqueline Woodson said she can’t write about nice, easy topics because that won’t change the world. She said she wants to change the world — one reader at a time. I think about that every time I sit down to write.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her eyes held a fierce glimmer, the kind that belongs to people who’ve seen too much and still choose to believe. Jack leaned back, exhaling through his nose, the kind of sigh that measures not disagreement, but weariness.

Jack: “Change the world? Through words? You sound like a romantic, Jeeny. The world doesn’t change because of sentences — it changes because of power, money, and policies.”

Jeeny: “And where do you think those start, Jack? With a thought. A story. A belief someone planted in the mind of a child, or a reader, or even a politician who was once a dreamer.”

Jack: “That’s a nice idea, but it’s too clean. The world isn’t a book, Jeeny. It doesn’t care about beautiful lines or noble hearts. It only moves when someone pushes it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And words push it. Just not the way you think.”

Host: Her hand moved unconsciously, tapping the pen against the table in rhythm with her breath. The rain outside had started, spattering the glass in soft patterns, each drop a tiny mirror reflecting the glow of the city.

Jack: “I get it, okay? You want to write about the hard stuff — the pain, the injustice, the real world. But maybe not everyone wants to read about it. Maybe they just want to escape.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. Escaping is easy. Facing is hard. And if we all keep escaping, nothing changes. I don’t write to comfort people. I write to wake them.”

Jack: “You think waking people will make them act?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Think of Harriet Beecher Stowe — her book Uncle Tom’s Cabin helped ignite the abolition movement. Or Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring — it sparked the environmental movement. Words are not just ink, Jack. They’re fire.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are — still burning.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But maybe because not enough people are writing the truth anymore.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the windows blurred, and the streetlights outside bent into ribbons of color. The sound was steady, almost ritualistic — a reminder that the world kept moving, even when words seemed to pause.

Jack: “You always think truth is what people need. But sometimes, the truth just hurts. It doesn’t heal, it doesn’t save — it just cuts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it has to cut first, Jack. That’s how the light gets in. That’s how people finally see what’s been bleeding all along.”

Jack: “So what — you want to write pain into the world?”

Jeeny: “No. I want to name it. Because what we name, we can face. And what we face, we can change.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was no longer gentle. It had edge, urgency, a kind of moral fire that cut through the room’s softness. Jack watched her, caught between admiration and discomfort.

Jack: “You talk like a revolutionary. But revolution requires action, not just art.”

Jeeny: “Art is action. Every story that refuses to be silent is a kind of protest. Every page that shows truth is a strike against apathy.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like the world isn’t listening?”

Jeeny: “Because the world is tired, Jack. But tired isn’t the same as hopeless. You think it’s the big gestures that change everything. I think it’s the small ones — one reader, one heart, one moment at a time.”

Host: The lights in the café flickered once, then steadied. The barista in the corner was cleaning, stacking cups, ready to close, but Jack and Jeeny seemed outside of time, locked in a space where only words and belief mattered.

Jack: “You really believe in this… one-reader-at-a-time thing?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every movement starts with a mind that’s changed. The world doesn’t turn because of crowds. It turns because of conscience.”

Jack: “You think writing can make someone… good?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can make them see. And once you’ve seen, you can’t go back to being blind.”

Host: A pause, the kind that holds more than silence — it held the truth between them, fragile and shining. Jack’s fingers hovered above his keyboard, his eyes unfocused, as if he was searching for something in the space between her words.

Jack: “You know, I used to write too. Before the deadlines, before the clients. I wanted to tell stories that meant something. But I stopped because the world didn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world didn’t — but one person might have. And that’s enough.”

Jack: “You really think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because that’s all we ever get — one reader, one moment, one chance to leave a mark that says: I was here. I tried.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed, and for the first time, Jack saw not a dreamer, but a fighter — one whose weapon was language, whose armor was hope.

Jack: “So what would you write about, if you could write just one story that changes something?”

Jeeny: “I’d write about the forgotten ones. The silent girls, the working mothers, the kids who don’t see themselves in books. I’d give them names, faces, voices. Because if the world won’t listen, I’ll make it read.”

Jack: “That’s… brave.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s necessary.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The sky outside was clearing, revealing a thin silver moon behind the clouds. The streets shimmered, washed clean.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe change doesn’t start in boardrooms or parliaments, but in cafés like this — with two people who still believe words matter.”

Jeeny: “They do, Jack. They always will. Because words are how we dream before we build.”

Host: Jack closed his laptop, his reflection in the dark screen fading, replaced by hers. Two faces, side by side, tired yet alive, their shadows blending with the light.

Host: The camera would pull back, slowly, through the window, into the rain-soaked night. The café’s sign flickered, its letters spelling “INK & BEAN,” a place for dreamers who still write about the hard things.

And as the city hummed on, Jeeny’s voice would linger, a whisper cutting through the dark:

Jeeny: “I don’t want to write about what’s easy. I want to write about what’s true. Because if I can make one reader stop, feel, and think, then I’ve already changed the world.”

Host: The screen fades, but the words stay, like embers — small, glowing, defiant — waiting to set another soul alight.