I don't think I should be telling you every 10 minutes what to

Host: The theatre was nearly empty. Rows of worn red seats stretched into darkness, the faint scent of dust, velvet, and memory hanging in the air. On the stage, a single spotlight burned — pale, trembling — illuminating a small circle of wooden floorboards where countless stories had once lived and died.

The ghost light hummed quietly in the center, that eternal companion of empty stages. Outside, faint rain brushed against the windows, like a soft applause no one had earned.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, his coat thrown over one shoulder, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed on the darkness before him. Jeeny stood in the aisle, holding a thin script against her chest — a rehearsal draft, inked with hope and doubt.

Between them, resting on the stage floor, lay a small card — a quote scrawled in ink:

"I don't think I should be telling you every 10 minutes what to think. I like to leave the audience alone with the magic. I tend to trust the material, or I don't do it."
— Jack O’Brien

Jeeny: “You know, I’ve always loved that idea — leaving the audience alone with the magic. It’s like… giving them silence to dream in.”

Jack: “Or giving them confusion to drown in. Depends on the material, doesn’t it?”

Host: The light flickered, casting a ripple across the curtain, as though the theatre itself were listening.

Jeeny: “You sound skeptical, as usual.”

Jack: “I’m practical, Jeeny. Directors like O’Brien can talk about ‘trusting the material’ because they’ve got good material. But let’s be honest — most scripts don’t hold that kind of weight. If you leave an audience alone with mediocrity, they’ll suffocate.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not what he meant. He meant faith — in story, in silence, in the intelligence of people watching. You don’t have to explain everything to move someone.”

Jack: “Faith’s a luxury for people who can afford to fail gracefully.”

Jeeny: “No. Faith’s a choice. Even when the odds are cruel.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her voice softer now, but steady, like a candle refusing to go out in a storm.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? That moment in a play when the air changes — when you don’t tell them what to feel, and yet… they feel it anyway. That’s what he’s talking about. That’s the magic.”

Jack: “Magic’s an illusion, Jeeny. Carefully timed lighting, rehearsed pauses, and an audience willing to believe. You take away the craft, and all you’ve got left is darkness.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what theatre is? A shared illusion? A contract between lies and longing? We know it’s not real — but we still choose to believe.”

Host: The rain thickened, its rhythm echoing faintly through the rafters. The ghost light quivered, its filament whispering of old performances, forgotten applause.

Jack: “I’ve worked on shows where directors didn’t trust the material. They filled every silence with noise, every pause with movement, every moment with explanation. You know what happened? The audience clapped. Politely. Then forgot it the next day.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because they weren’t trusted. They weren’t invited into the story. They were led — hand-held — and no one remembers the path that’s already been paved for them. But when you trust the material… when you let them find it — that’s when it stays.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve fallen in love with ambiguity.”

Jeeny: “No, I’ve fallen in love with interpretation. With mystery. With the idea that a story can breathe differently in every heart that meets it.”

Host: Jeeny placed the script down on the stage beside him. The pages fluttered open to a random scene — one half-written, half-discovered. Jack looked at it, his grey eyes tracing the words like a skeptic reading scripture.

Jack: “But doesn’t that mean losing control? Letting people take your work somewhere you never intended?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that the point of art — to let it escape you?”

Jack: “Escape is dangerous. It means misunderstanding. Misuse. They could twist your meaning.”

Jeeny: “Or they could find truth you never saw. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the cracked door, swirling a few pages off the stage and into the aisles — like thoughts escaping their author.

Jack: “You’re talking like mystery’s a virtue.”

Jeeny: “It is. Life doesn’t hand us clarity. Why should art?”

Jack: “Because art’s supposed to make sense of life, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No — art’s supposed to reflect it. Sense is optional. Honesty isn’t.”

Host: The spotlight hummed again, as if it approved. A faint dust shimmer floated through the beam, turning the air golden. Jack’s expression softened — the hard angles of reason bending under the weight of her words.

Jack: “So you’d rather leave people guessing than guide them?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather leave them feeling. You guide them too tightly, they stop wondering. They stop imagining.”

Jack: “And if they misunderstand completely?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t theirs to understand — maybe it was theirs to feel differently. That’s the beauty of trust. O’Brien trusted the audience. He trusted the silence.”

Host: Silence fell, thick and breathing. The kind of silence that feels like a living presence — patient, watching.

Jack: “You ever fear the silence, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every time. But I also know it’s where truth hides.”

Jack: “And if truth never comes out of it?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not time yet.”

Host: Jack looked out over the empty seats, rows of red ghosts staring back. He saw not absence but potential — the quiet hum of thousands of untold reactions, interpretations, awakenings.

Jack: “You know, I think you’re right about one thing. The best directors don’t force the audience to think. They… invite them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They open the door, then step aside.”

Jack: “It’s terrifying, though. To trust the material that much.”

Jeeny: “Trust is always terrifying. But without it, there’s no art — only manipulation.”

Host: The ghost light flickered, its glow trembling like breath. The rain began to fade, replaced by the hush that comes before dawn.

Jeeny walked slowly up the steps of the stage and stood in the center of the light. She turned her face upward, letting the pale glow touch her features like a forgotten prayer.

Jeeny: “When I watch a play that trusts itself — even if I don’t understand everything — I feel alive. Like the story believes I’m capable of finding my own truth.”

Jack: “And when you don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I feel small. Like the director doesn’t think I can handle wonder.”

Host: Jack rose, joining her in the circle of light. The dust between them sparkled like faint stars.

Jack: “So you’d rather leave them alone with the magic.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because real magic doesn’t explain itself.”

Jack: “And you think trust is stronger than clarity.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: He stood silent, the light warming his tired face. In that moment, the stage didn’t feel empty — it felt sacred. A place where trust replaced control, and silence became a kind of faith.

Jack: “You know, maybe O’Brien’s right. Maybe directing — maybe life — is about learning when to stop speaking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The audience doesn’t need you every ten minutes. Sometimes they just need a heartbeat — a pause that says, I trust you.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed slowly, until the stage fell into soft twilight. Only the ghost light remained — a tiny ember of faith glowing against the darkness.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

Jack: “I guess the hardest part isn’t trusting the material… it’s trusting that the audience will meet you halfway.”

Jeeny: “And the most beautiful part is — they always do.”

Host: The rain stopped. The theatre was still. Somewhere in the silence, the faint echo of applause — not heard, but felt — rippled through the air.

Two figures stood in the light, neither explaining, neither commanding, simply believing.

The light flickered once, then steadied — a promise kept between creation and its witness.

And in that stillness, the magic stood alone — trusted, unspoken, and true.