I find writing very difficult. It's hard and it hurts sometimes

Host: The night lay heavy over the city, draped in slow-moving fog and the faint glow of streetlamps. Somewhere above, the moon hid behind torn clouds, casting no light. Inside a narrow apartment, half the lights were out; the only illumination came from the computer screen, pale and trembling, throwing shadows across the walls like restless ghosts of unwritten words.

Jack sat before the screen, his hands still, his eyes hollow. The cursor blinked — patient, mocking. Jeeny sat by the window, her knees drawn up, watching him in quiet empathy. The table between them was scattered with half-empty coffee mugs, scribbled pages, and the slow, stubborn scent of creative exhaustion.

Jeeny: “Tony Kushner once said, ‘I find writing very difficult. It’s hard and it hurts sometimes, and it’s scary because of the fear of failure and the very unpleasant feeling that you may have reached the limit of your abilities.’”

Host: Her voice came soft, like the whisper of rain that hadn’t yet begun to fall. Jack didn’t look up. His fingers twitched on the keyboard, but the words refused to arrive.

Jack: “Yeah. That about sums it up. The only difference is, Kushner had talent to be afraid of losing.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think you’re doing here every night if not the same fight?”

Jack: “Fighting what? The emptiness? The ceiling? The fact that maybe — maybe I’ve already said everything worth saying?”

Host: The sound of the city outside — muffled traffic, a siren fading into the distance — filled the quiet that followed. The cursor blinked again. One blink for hope. One for despair.

Jeeny: “You think reaching the limit means you’ve failed?”

Jack: “Doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. It means you’ve touched the edge of who you are — and now you get to decide whether to stop or to bleed through it.”

Host: He finally looked up, his eyes grey, tired, but still burning with that fragile light all artists carry — the light of those who can’t stop creating, even when it hurts to do so.

Jack: “You talk like pain is a privilege.”

Jeeny: “It is, in a way. The pain of trying means you’re still alive enough to care. It’s the ones who stop hurting that scare me.”

Jack: “So what? We glorify the suffering artist again? That cliché where agony equals authenticity?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m not saying pain is noble. I’m saying it’s real. And anything real is worth facing.”

Host: A slow gust of wind rattled the windowpane. The curtains shifted, letting in a hint of cold air and the smell of wet concrete. Jack reached for a cigarette he wouldn’t light, rolling it between his fingers like a thought he didn’t trust enough to release.

Jack: “You ever get that feeling — like the well’s dry? Like every sentence you write just circles back to something you’ve already said better?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But the well isn’t dry, Jack. You’ve just gone deeper. It takes longer to draw the next bucket.”

Host: Her words hung in the room like embers, delicate and defiant. Jack let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping, the weight of his own expectations pressing on him like gravity.

Jack: “It’s funny. People think writing’s about creativity. It’s not. It’s about endurance. Sitting here for hours, arguing with yourself, bargaining with the page. It’s masochism disguised as art.”

Jeeny: “And yet you keep doing it.”

Jack: “Because I don’t know who I am when I stop.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your answer.”

Host: The lamp flickered — a heartbeat in the dark. Jeeny stood, walked toward him, and looked at the screen. Blank. Just that blinking line, waiting.

Jeeny: “You’re afraid it’ll betray you — that you’ve already peaked. But what if this fear is part of the process? What if the limit isn’t a wall, Jack — it’s a mirror?”

Jack: “And what do I see when I look in it?”

Jeeny: “The man who keeps trying.”

Host: His eyes closed. The room seemed to tighten, as if all the silence and fear in him had a body, too — one that stood between him and the next sentence.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But when you fail, it’s not poetic. It’s humiliating. You sit here, staring at a blinking cursor that knows more about you than you do.”

Jeeny: “Failure is only humiliation if you confuse your worth with your outcome.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re not the one staring at the empty page.”

Jeeny: “Don’t forget, I used to paint. You think I don’t know that emptiness? I’ve stared at blank canvases until my eyes burned. But that’s the moment right before something breaks open. The silence before sound.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples, then leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of unspoken sentences.

Jack: “Kushner was right — it hurts. And maybe the worst part isn’t even fear. It’s that deep, quiet suspicion that maybe the world doesn’t need another story.”

Jeeny: “The world doesn’t need another story. It needs yours. That’s the difference.”

Host: For the first time that night, the cursor stopped blinking — frozen by his stillness, as if listening.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because someone out there — right now — needs the sentence you’re too afraid to write.”

Jack: “And what if I can’t write it?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll try. You’ll fail. You’ll hurt. And then — you’ll write again. Because that’s what writers do.”

Host: A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the city. The light flickered again, and the faint sound of rain began — slow, hesitant, like applause from another world.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s sacred.”

Host: The rain deepened, tapping against the window in uneven rhythms. Jack’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. His expression softened — no longer anger, just quiet surrender.

Jack: “You ever think maybe creativity is a punishment? A cruel joke — to crave expression so deeply it hurts to fail at it?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a punishment. It’s a calling. The fear, the hurt — they’re the price of honesty.”

Jack: “And if honesty costs everything?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s worth the price.”

Host: A long pause. The screen glow reflected in both their eyes — one weary, one unwavering. Outside, the rain fell harder, as though the sky itself was purging something.

Jack: “You think Kushner felt like this every time he wrote?”

Jeeny: “Of course. All real writers do. That’s how you know it’s real — when it hurts.”

Jack: “Then why do we keep coming back?”

Jeeny: “Because pain fades. But the silence of not creating — that’s unbearable.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned back to the keyboard. His fingers trembled, but they began to move — slow, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence. Words began to form.

The cursor moved. The void broke.

Jeeny smiled softly, almost invisible in the dim light.

Jeeny: “See? It still listens to you.”

Jack: “No. You were the one listening.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly. The rain softened, and the faintest glow of dawn began to touch the horizon beyond the fog.

The computer screen, once blank, now held the first fragile lines of something new. Not perfect. Not painless. But alive.

Jack leaned back, exhaling, a faint, tired smile crossing his face.

Jack: “It still hurts.”

Jeeny: “Good. That means it’s true.”

Host: Outside, the first light of morning touched the city — soft gold over wet rooftops, spilling through the window and pooling across the desk.

Jack kept typing. Jeeny watched in silence. The room, once filled with doubt, now hummed with quiet creation.

And somewhere beyond the page, in the unseen world where words are born, pain and beauty shook hands — and began again.