I really love middle-grade. Middle-grade books have a little more

Host: The afternoon light was a soft amber, filtering through the windows of a bookstore café that smelled faintly of paper, coffee, and memory. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, like tiny dreams refusing to settle.

Jack sat in a worn leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, a book open in his lap but unread. His grey eyes were fixed on the steam curling from his cup, as if the swirls of heat might spell out an answer he’d been avoiding.

Across from him, Jeeny flipped through a children’s novel, her fingers tracing the illustrations like one might trace the memory of a lost friend. There was a soft smile at the corners of her lips, the kind that belongs to someone who still believes in magic — even when the world insists otherwise.

She spoke without looking up.

Jeeny: “James Dashner once said — ‘I really love middle-grade. Middle-grade books have a little more of a magical, light-hearted feel. You can be a little bit more quirky, you can have a little more humor. It doesn't get so dark and deep.’”

Host: The words hung in the still air, resting between the scent of coffee and the sound of pages turning.

Jack: “He’s not wrong. But maybe that’s the problem. The world isn’t light-hearted. It’s dark, messy, complicated. If you avoid that, you’re not writing the truth — you’re painting over it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’re forgetting something. Lightness doesn’t deny the truth — it survives it. That’s what middle-grade stories do. They remind us of the beauty before we learn to doubt it.”

Host: Jack closed his book, the sound of the cover snapping shut like a small argument. He leaned forward, his eyes steady, his tone measured.

Jack: “You make it sound like innocence is a kind of wisdom. But it’s not. It’s ignorance. The darkness has to be faced, Jeeny. You don’t grow by pretending the monsters aren’t real.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t heal by staring at them forever. You face them, yes — but you also have to remember why it was worth fighting them in the first place. That’s what light-heartedness does. It protects the spirit from drowning in its own knowledge.”

Host: A pause settled between them. The rain had begun outside, softly tapping against the windowpanes, echoing like a gentle drumbeat of time.

Jack took a sip of his coffee, his expression tightening as if the bitterness had answered something he hadn’t asked aloud.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? The world doesn’t need more stories that float. It needs stories that bleed. Kids don’t stay innocent forever. Maybe it’s better to prepare them for the dark than to shield them with fairy dust.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You think darkness is preparation? No. It’s infection. You can’t arm a child with fear. You can only arm them with wonder. Because wonder is what keeps curiosity alive, and curiosity — that’s the first weapon against despair.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it carried, like a song that didn’t need volume to move mountains.

Jack: “So what? We just fill them with stories about dragons and hope and happily ever afters — and then drop them into a world that devours all of that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least they’ll know what light looks like before they have to walk in the dark.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, and for a moment, the lights flickered, casting the room into shifting shadows. The storm outside began to mirror the conversation within — calm at first, but brewing, rising, clashing.

Jack: “You think hope is enough. It’s not. It’s fragile. It breaks the moment reality steps in. That’s why I don’t trust those ‘magical’ stories. They make promises life never keeps.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without those promises, who would even try? We need the illusion before we can build the belief. Magic isn’t a lie, Jack — it’s a language. The one we lose when we start calling everything logic.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes were alive, burning with emotion, while Jack’s grey gaze stayed still, like a storm waiting to speak.

Jack: “You sound like one of those authors who thinks every story should heal. But not every wound is meant to close.”

Jeeny: “Then at least let it breathe. Let it remember the air that once carried laughter. Because that’s what middle-grade stories do — they let the soul breathe again, even when it’s tired.”

Host: The rain had grown stronger now, drumming against the roof, filling the room with a steady rhythm — like heartbeats, like seconds slipping away.

Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked at her — not in anger, but in the quiet frustration of a man who had forgotten how to believe.

Jack: “You know why I don’t buy that? Because I’ve read those books. The happy ones. The ones with laughter and friendship and light. And I remember closing them and feeling nothing but emptiness. Because they lied. They made me think everything would turn out fine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t the books that lied, Jack. Maybe it was the world that broke the promise.”

Host: His eyes flickered, meeting hers — and for the first time, something inside him wavered.

Jack: “And you think I should still believe in it?”

Jeeny: “Not believe — remember. Remember that once, even for a moment, you did. And that memory — that’s what keeps you human.”

Host: The storm outside had softened, turning into a gentle drizzle, the sound like whispered forgiveness.

Jeeny closed her book, her fingers resting on its cover, as if she were holding a small heart.

Jeeny: “Dashner said it doesn’t have to get so dark or deep. Maybe that’s not avoidance — maybe it’s balance. Maybe it’s how we remember to smile before we forget how.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe the dark needs the light more than it admits.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even the deepest stories need a little magic. Otherwise, we stop believing there’s a way back up.”

Host: The rain tapered off. A beam of sunlight slipped through the window, catching in the steam of their cups, turning it to gold. The dust motes danced, glittering, like tiny pieces of hope that had been waiting for the light to find them again.

Jack smiled — the rare, unarmored kind.

Jack: “Maybe we’re both wrong. Maybe life is both — dark and light, deep and silly. Maybe laughter is how we breathe through the depths.”

Jeeny: “And maybe darkness is how we learn to appreciate the lightness.”

Host: They sat there for a while, watching the rain’s reflection on the pavement, the sunlight glinting off each drop like small miracles.

In the background, a child laughed — a pure, unbroken sound that filled the room.

And in that moment, Jack and Jeeny both understood what James Dashner had meant: that not every story needs to hurt to heal. Some just need to remind us that joy, too, can be profound.

The light shifted, the air stilled, and for the first time in a long while, their hearts felt a little lighter, a little more magical — not because the darkness had gone, but because they had learned how to laugh again while it was still there.