I like making things. I have a wood shop at home. I am a terrible

Host: The late afternoon sun spilled through the open garage door, laying warm streaks of gold across a messy workshop. Sawdust floated in the air like tiny sparks, dancing in the light as the faint hum of an old radio murmured classic rock from the corner. The smell of pine, glue, and coffee mingled like an unfinished thought.

Jack stood by the workbench, sleeves rolled, a small cut on his forearm, hands covered in sawdust. In front of him sat what was meant to be a bookshelf, but looked more like an abstract puzzle of uneven joints and hopeful nails.

Jeeny leaned against the doorway, her hair pulled back, a faint smile curling at her lips. She held two mugs of coffee, watching him with the quiet amusement of someone who’s seen this ritual before.

Jeeny: “P. J. O’Rourke once said, ‘I like making things. I have a wood shop at home. I am a terrible carpenter but I love doing it.’”

Host: Jack looked up, his grey eyes glinting, a smirk tugging at his face as he wiped his hands on his jeans.

Jack: “Finally. A man after my own heart — terrible craftsmanship, excellent enthusiasm.”

Jeeny: “You sound proud of that.”

Jack: “I am. You don’t have to be good at something to love it. Sometimes the doing’s enough.”

Host: He picked up a chisel, examining it like a philosopher might examine a truth — carefully, suspiciously.

Jeeny: “That’s a nice sentiment, but most people would say if you love something, you should try to be good at it.”

Jack: “That’s because most people confuse love with mastery. Love doesn’t need to win awards — it just needs to show up.”

Host: The radio crackled, a soft riff from Springsteen cutting through the smell of wood and dust. Jeeny walked in, set the mugs down, and watched him hammer another nail — crookedly.

Jeeny: “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that. Every shelf you make leans left, every table wobbles like it’s drunk.”

Jack: “That’s not imperfection. That’s personality.”

Jeeny: “That’s denial.”

Host: He laughed, a low, husky sound that filled the space.

Jack: “No, really. There’s something freeing about making something you know will never be perfect. The pressure’s gone. You can just… build.”

Jeeny: “You talk like a man who’s turning failure into philosophy.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. You know, we live in a world obsessed with optimization — perfect bodies, perfect code, perfect sentences. It’s exhausting. Out here, with bad wood and dull tools, I can mess up and still feel human.”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, studying him. The light caught her eyes, making them seem deeper, softer.

Jeeny: “You sound like my father. He used to carve wooden birds. None of them looked like birds, but he said they felt like them.”

Jack: “Exactly. You get it. It’s not about resemblance, it’s about resonance.”

Host: She picked up a small wooden plane from the bench, running her fingers across it.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe you love building things because you can control them? Out there — life, people, emotions — they don’t follow plans. But wood does, at least in theory.”

Jack: “Oh no, wood’s just as stubborn as people. It warps, splits, resists every intention you have. It’s honest about it, though. People pretend.”

Jeeny: “So, carpentry’s your therapy.”

Jack: “Carpentry’s my mirror. It reminds me I’m still learning — that I’m still allowed to be bad at something.”

Host: He set down his hammer, leaned on the table, the sound of the metal clinking softly. There was a quiet contentment about him — the kind that only comes from effort without expectation.

Jeeny: “You know, O’Rourke’s quote isn’t really about wood. It’s about joy — the kind that doesn’t care how the world judges it.”

Jack: “Exactly. Joy without audience.”

Jeeny: “You think that still exists? Everything now is shared, posted, rated. Even hobbies have hashtags.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s why I like this. No algorithm here. Just me, my mistakes, and a shelf that refuses to stand straight.”

Host: She laughed, a bright, unfiltered sound that bounced off the workshop walls.

Jeeny: “You know, that crooked shelf might be your autobiography.”

Jack: “Wouldn’t be the first time my life leaned to one side.”

Host: He grinned, and for a moment, the weariness in his face melted. Jeeny walked around the workbench, picking up a piece of sandpaper, joining him.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people love making things. It’s not about perfection — it’s about evidence. Proof that you existed, that you touched something and changed it.”

Jack: “Yeah. And it’s solid. You can see it, hold it, screw it up, and still call it yours.”

Host: The sunlight faded, and the garage grew dim. The radio hummed low, the song changing to an old blues track — lazy, imperfect, alive.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I’ve spent years trying to build a life that looked straight. And now I realize — maybe the wobble’s the best part.”

Jeeny: “Because it means it was made by hand.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty, but full, like the space between heartbeats. They both stood, looking at the half-finished shelf, its crooked lines catching the last strands of light.

Jeeny: “So what are you going to call this one?”

Jack: “‘Good Enough.’”

Jeeny: “Fitting.”

Host: He reached for the saw again, measured, cut, not carefully — but happily. The rhythm of the blade against the wood was uneven but certain.

Jack: “You know what O’Rourke forgot to say?”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “Being terrible at something you love is the most honest kind of success there is.”

Host: She smiled, nodding slowly.

Jeeny: “Because it means you’re doing it for the right reasons.”

Jack: “Because it means you’re doing it for you.”

Host: Outside, the light dimmed completely, and the garage bulb flickered on — soft, warm, imperfect. The sawdust glowed in its glow, like a private snowfall.

They kept working — no more words, just the steady pulse of creation and companionship. A crooked shelf, a cluttered workshop, two people in quiet harmony with imperfection.

Host: And as the scene faded, the last image lingered — Jack’s hand brushing dust from the wood, Jeeny’s smile soft and proud, the air alive with the beauty of small, human flaws.

Host: In that moment, they both seemed to understand what O’Rourke meant — that joy isn’t found in mastery, but in making; not in skill, but in the simple, humble act of trying — terribly, earnestly, and wholeheartedly.