I know a bit about selling books, and you need a good title - a

Host: The night had a kind of lazy humidity, the air thick with the smell of rain-soaked asphalt and coffee grounds. A dim bookstore café sat at the end of a quiet street, its sign half-lit, buzzing faintly. Inside, the shelves leaned under the weight of forgotten paperbacks and dusty ambition.

Jack and Jeeny were the last two souls still there. The clock on the wall ticked with indifferent rhythm. A ceiling fan turned lazily, its shadow circling across their faces like the ghost of time.

Jeeny sat at the corner table, her fingers tracing the edge of an old book jacket. The cover was faded, the title barely legible, but her eyes held that quiet spark — the one that said she was searching for meaning in the smallest things.

Jack, his shirt sleeves rolled up, sat opposite her, pen tapping against the table, a half-empty cup of black coffee cooling beside him. He had that look again — the skeptic’s calm, the thinker’s distance, the salesman’s exhaustion.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “I know a bit about selling books, and you need a good title — a catchy concoction with a little Cajun spice, something that will make folks stop in the aisles, turn away from the Grisham novels and the latest crazy diet fad, and pick up your masterpiece.” — James Carville.

Host: The words hung in the air, like the steam rising from their cups — playful, yet pointed.

Jack: (smirking) “Now there’s a man who understands the game. Doesn’t matter what’s inside if the cover sings loud enough.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s just about catchiness?”

Jack: “Of course it is. Life’s one big marketing campaign, Jeeny. You sell your ideas, your dreams, your morality, your heart — all dressed up in the best title you can come up with.”

Jeeny: “But a title isn’t the truth of the book. It’s just an invitation.”

Jack: “Exactly. And people don’t care about the meal — they care about the menu.”

Host: The light above them flickered, casting brief shadows across the table — as if the room itself were arguing between illumination and doubt.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that’s tragic? That we’ve become a world of covers and catchphrases? What happened to substance — to quiet things that don’t have to shout to be seen?”

Jack: “Substance is what keeps a book alive, sure. But no one gets to it unless the cover convinces them to open it. It’s the same with people. You walk into a room, and everyone reads your title before they ever meet your chapters.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve built a world of bestsellers that no one ever finishes reading.”

Host: A gust of wind brushed against the window, rattling the glass, like a soft protest from the night outside.

Jack: “Maybe. But I’d still rather be picked up and judged than ignored entirely.”

Jeeny: “And what if being picked up means being misunderstood?”

Jack: “Then at least you were noticed. There’s no truth in silence, Jeeny — only oblivion.”

Host: A silence followed — thick, but not cold. The fan hummed above, steady, constant, the only sound brave enough to fill the space between them.

Jeeny looked down, her thumb rubbing a crease in the paper, her mind turning like a tide — gentle, but with depth.

Jeeny: “You always talk about visibility like it’s victory. But what if some things are meant to be found slowly? What if the best books — the best people — don’t need a flashy title, just a reader willing to look?”

Jack: “Idealistic as ever. But in the real world, no one’s got the time to look deeper. We’re wired for first impressions. Quick glances, snap judgments, clever hooks — that’s what keeps the world spinning.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s what keeps it dizzy.”

Host: The words hit like a quiet blow, the kind that doesn’t hurt, but echoes.

Jack sat back, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup, the steam curling between his hands like restless thought.

Jack: “So what, you want honesty over success? Truth over attention?”

Jeeny: “No. I want meaning over noise. I want a world where masterpieces don’t have to compete with diet books and celebrity memoirs just to be seen.”

Host: The rain had softened, sliding down the window like transparent sentences. The street outside was empty, gleaming, quiet — the kind of silence that felt earned.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to believe in titles too. I used to think if I just had the right words, I could sell anything — a product, a dream, even myself. But the older I get, the more I realize people don’t remember the title. They remember how the book made them feel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s where the real selling happens. Not in the aisles, not in the advertisements, but in the hearts of those who actually turn the pages.”

Jack: “Still, you need that first glance. That spark. The title’s your handshake.”

Jeeny: “Then let it be a true one. Firm, not fake. Warm, not rehearsed.”

Host: Their eyes met then — his, grey and analytical; hers, brown and unwavering. It wasn’t an argument anymore — it was a meeting point, a shared recognition of two truths that didn’t cancel each other, but completed them.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what I’d call this conversation?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Between the Lines.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s a good title.”

Jack: “Catchy enough?”

Jeeny: “Real enough.”

Host: The clerk began stacking chairs, the metal legs clinking softly like applause fading. The clock ticked past midnight, and the world outside shimmered with leftover rainlight.

Jack and Jeeny stood, collecting their things, the quiet between them now easy, earned, like a book’s final page that leaves the reader still inside the story.

Host: As they walked out, the neon sign above the door buzzed once more, its light flickering across their faces — a brief flash of color, like the cover of an old novel rediscovered.

And perhaps James Carville was right — that a title should make people stop and turn, even for a moment.

But as Jack and Jeeny stepped into the night’s cool hush, it was clear:
the real masterpiece is not the one that grabs attention —
it’s the one that holds it quietly, page by page, soul by soul,
long after the aisles are empty and the lights go out.