I made a very conscious effort to finish 'The Cypress House'

Host: The writing room was quiet except for the soft clicking of a typewriter and the faint hiss of rain against the window. It was one of those long, gray evenings when time itself feels suspended — the air heavy with thought, the clock almost shy to tick. The desk was cluttered: stacks of paper, a half-drunk mug of coffee, a few scattered pages with phrases crossed out like discarded dreams.

Jack sat hunched over, his fingers resting on the keys but unmoving, his eyes fixed on the blank sheet rolled into the carriage. The light from a small desk lamp cut across his face, showing the faint exhaustion of someone living between creation and consequence.

Jeeny stood by the bookshelf behind him, running her fingers along the worn spines of novels. The shelves were filled with stories — some published, some waiting — and a few old notebooks that carried the ghosts of unwritten ones.

Host: The rain outside thickened, a steady percussion against the glass, the perfect metronome for a writer’s doubt.

Jeeny: (softly) “Michael Koryta once said, ‘I made a very conscious effort to finish “The Cypress House” before “So Cold the River” launched, because I thought that would help build a buffer between my writing and any impact that came from either the success or the failure of that first book.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Smart man. Most writers build walls with words. He built one with work.”

Jeeny: “A buffer, he called it — between creation and reaction.”

Jack: (finally turning toward her) “Between the art and the noise.”

Host: The lamp flickered, catching the edge of his coffee mug, the reflection trembling like the uncertainty of the moment.

Jeeny: “You think that’s possible — to write without letting success or failure reach you?”

Jack: “Not completely. But you can try to build distance. The danger isn’t the outcome — it’s the echo.”

Jeeny: “The echo?”

Jack: “Yeah. The echo of other people’s opinions bouncing around in your head until you can’t hear your own voice anymore.”

Host: The typewriter keys glimmered faintly, untouched. The rain grew louder, like applause turned mechanical.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he meant by ‘buffer.’ Protect the purity of the process before it’s polluted by perception.”

Jack: “Exactly. Before critics start calling your art a product.”

Jeeny: “Or before praise makes you cautious.”

Jack: “That’s the real killer. Failure wounds the ego, but success corrupts the instinct.”

Host: She smiled faintly, moving closer to the desk, her eyes scanning the messy drafts, the ink stains, the endless loops of revision.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting between what’s written and what the world will think of it.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Every writer has. It’s that fragile space where the story belongs to you — and only you — for the last time.”

Jeeny: “And once it’s out there?”

Jack: “It’s no longer yours. It becomes everyone’s mirror.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox of art. You make something out of solitude, and then you lose it to strangers.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You lose it to interpretation.”

Host: The sound of the rain softened, shifting from rhythm to texture — a kind of white noise that made the room feel smaller, safer.

Jeeny: “Koryta’s idea — writing the next book before the first one launches — that’s not just discipline. It’s protection.”

Jack: “It’s survival. Keeps you from being defined by a single story.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what he feared — being trapped by success?”

Jack: “Or by expectation. They’re the same cage, just painted different colors.”

Host: Jeeny sat on the edge of the desk now, crossing her arms, her expression thoughtful.

Jeeny: “I think it’s about rhythm, too. Creativity dies when it pauses to listen for applause.”

Jack: “And yet, the temptation’s always there. You want to know if you mattered.”

Jeeny: “But the moment you start writing for validation, you stop writing from truth.”

Jack: “And truth is all a story really has.”

Host: He reached for his pen, not to write, but to spin it between his fingers — the nervous tic of a man trying to hold faith in something invisible.

Jack: “You know what’s hardest? Success doesn’t teach you how to create again. It teaches you how to imitate yourself.”

Jeeny: “And failure teaches you to doubt what made you brave.”

Jack: (nods) “That’s why you need the buffer. The next book isn’t just insurance — it’s identity. Proof that your art isn’t dependent on applause.”

Jeeny: “Or despair.”

Host: A small crack of thunder sounded outside — soft, delayed, like a distant punctuation mark.

Jeeny: “So you just keep writing through it?”

Jack: “You have to. You keep your head down and build the next world before the old one collapses under expectation.”

Jeeny: “Like a pilot building his next plane mid-flight.”

Jack: (smiling) “Exactly. It’s madness, but it’s the only way to stay sane.”

Host: The typewriter finally clicked — one key, then another. The sound was hesitant at first, then steadier, like a heartbeat returning after too long in silence.

Jeeny watched him quietly, a faint pride in her eyes, the kind that comes from witnessing someone remember why they began.

Jeeny: “You think Koryta ever stopped worrying about impact?”

Jack: (without looking up) “No artist ever does. We just learn to outwork the worry.”

Jeeny: “To write through the noise.”

Jack: “Until it stops sounding like noise — and becomes part of the music.”

Host: The camera drifted back, the lamplight glowing over the desk, the typewriter alive now with rhythm. Outside, the storm eased into quiet rain, and the faint smell of wet earth drifted through the open window.

And in that stillness — between creation and consequence, fear and faith — Michael Koryta’s words lingered like a compass for every artist afraid of their own reflection:

“I made a very conscious effort to finish ‘The Cypress House’ before ‘So Cold the River’ launched, because I thought that would help build a buffer between my writing and any impact that came from either the success or the failure of that first book.”

Host: Because the true artist builds not for applause,
but for continuity.

For in the fragile space between one story and the next,
they rediscover the quiet,
the purpose,
and the freedom
that no amount of success — or failure —
can ever take away.