I don't write from dreams because I don't remember mine, but I

Host:
The night hummed with quiet electricity. A dim desk lamp cast a cone of amber light across a cluttered writing room, where towers of books, loose papers, and half-drunk cups of coffee surrounded two figures like the walls of some creative fortress. The rain outside tapped gently on the windowpane, as if trying to listen to the quiet thunder of thought inside.

Jack sat hunched over the table, his sleeves rolled, his grey eyes lost in a page filled with ink and revision marks. His fingers drummed absently against the edge of a notebook, where a small, hand-written quote sat at the top of the page — underlined twice.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged in the old armchair, a pen tucked behind her ear, her dark eyes soft but alive with that particular kind of light that appears only in the presence of creation.

The quote on the page — the one they had been circling for hours — read:

“I don't write from dreams because I don't remember mine, but I had a fragment of an image left about twins, whose father was telling them how their lives were going to go for the next eight years. I wrote a scene about that, and then another and then another and then another, and after five months I had 732 pages.”
— Tamora Pierce

Jeeny: gently tracing the words with her finger “That’s what I love about it — the simplicity of it. She didn’t have a plan. Just a fragment. One image that turned into a universe. That’s the purest kind of creation there is.”

Jack: smirking slightly “You mean chaos disguised as art.”

Host:
The rain thickened, the sound swelling like applause against the window glass. The lamp light flickered, illuminating the notes scattered across the desk — small scenes, pieces of dialogue, half-formed ideas like constellations waiting for their mythology.

Jeeny: smiling “Call it chaos if you want. I call it instinct. The story just unfolded itself. Isn’t that what every artist hopes for — to stop controlling and start listening?”

Jack: leaning back, eyes narrowing thoughtfully “Listening to what, though? The muse? The subconscious? Or just the noise inside your own head pretending to be something divine?”

Jeeny: softly, but firm “Maybe all of it. Maybe creation is the one moment when all that noise becomes music.”

Host:
A long silence followed — the kind that exists only between people who understand each other too deeply to rush their thoughts. The clock on the wall ticked, marking the slow rhythm of imagination.

Jack: finally speaking “It’s funny. She didn’t remember her dreams — and still ended up building one. Seven hundred thirty-two pages, all from a single image. That’s not talent. That’s obsession.”

Jeeny: with a small laugh “You say obsession like it’s a disease. Maybe it’s the cure — for everything ordinary.”

Jack: half-smiling, looking toward the rain-streaked window “Or maybe it’s how you lose touch with reality. Every great story starts as a lie we tell ourselves to survive the truth.”

Jeeny: gently “Then maybe that’s what writers do best — turn lies into something that feels like faith.”

Host:
The room glowed softly, a golden cocoon of paper and thought. Outside, the streetlights blurred through the rain, and the faint hum of the city became an unintentional soundtrack to their debate.

Jack: picking up the page again, rereading the quote aloud “‘I wrote a scene about that, and then another and then another and then another…’” He paused, smiling faintly. “You know what I hear in that? Compulsion. The slow collapse of reason.”

Jeeny: “No. I hear discovery. That’s how life works too, doesn’t it? One scene after another. You don’t see the ending — you just keep writing until you do.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “It is. To make meaning out of nothing — that’s the most human thing we do.”

Host:
Her words landed gently, but their truth was heavy. Jack looked at her for a long time, his eyes thoughtful, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. The smoke curled upward — a thin, poetic ghost of uncertainty.

Jack: quietly “So you think all stories start as fragments?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every story is a splinter of something real. It starts with a moment — a face you can’t forget, a dream you barely remember, a pain that refuses to go away. Then the writing begins to grow around it, like a scar.”

Jack: softly “So the writing’s not healing. It’s the scar itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s proof that something once cut deep enough to make you bleed meaning.”

Host:
The lamp flickered again, and for a moment, both of them sat in half-darkness, surrounded by the quiet hum of electricity, paper, and shared thought. The pages on the desk fluttered slightly as a breeze slipped through the cracked window — each one whispering a secret in its fragile rustle.

Jack: “You ever think about how long it takes to make something real? Five months. Seven hundred pages. People only ever see the finished book — they never see the hours of doubt, the nights of silence, the days when you think you’ve lost the thread.”

Jeeny: nodding “But that’s the point, isn’t it? To live inside that uncertainty. To be brave enough to keep going when all you have is a fragment of an image. That’s not just writing — that’s life.”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “And maybe the ones who never start are the ones who wait too long for the dream to make sense.”

Jeeny: smiling “Dreams rarely make sense. But sometimes the nonsense is where the truth hides.”

Host:
A moment of silence stretched between them, rich and full — the kind of silence that feels alive, that hums with the weight of what’s been said and the promise of what’s still waiting to be written.

The rain eased. The city outside glistened, reflected in the window — a shimmering collage of movement and meaning. Inside, Jack picked up his pen, turning to a blank page in his notebook.

Jack: quietly “One image. That’s all it takes, right?”

Jeeny: smiling “Yes. Just one. The rest will find its way to you — if you trust the page more than the plan.”

Host:
The camera of imagination pulled back — the two of them caught in that quiet dance between inspiration and discipline, between dream and draft. The soft scratch of pen on paper filled the room — the first breath of something being born.

And as the scene faded to shadow, the voice of the narrator lingered like the last note of a song:

That creation does not begin with clarity,
but with fragments —
the small, defiant images that refuse to leave us.

That art is not a dream remembered,
but a truth assembled piece by piece,
in the long and luminous dark of human persistence.

And perhaps that is what Tamora Pierce meant all along —
that to create, one does not wait for dreams to arrive,
but learns to build worlds
from the scraps of what refuses to be forgotten.

Host (softly):
And so they wrote — one scene, then another, and another still —
until, without noticing, their fragments became a life.