I think it's kind of difficult to write a good Christmas song

Host: The snow had started falling early that evening — big, soft flakes drifting lazily through the amber glow of the streetlamps. The city was quieter than usual, muffled by the white hush of winter. Inside a small, half-forgotten recording studio, a faint warmth flickered from the radiators, mingling with the hum of old amplifiers and the sweet, dusty scent of vinyl.

Strings of Christmas lights hung unevenly across the sound booth window, their colors reflected in the silver of a worn microphone. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside the mixing board, next to a pile of crumpled lyric sheets.

Jack sat slouched in the corner, guitar across his lap, one leg stretched out, the other tapping a nervous rhythm. His fingers hovered over the strings, but no sound came. His eyes were lost somewhere in the haze between memory and music.

Jeeny stood at the far end of the studio, adjusting the mic stand, her hair tied up, her scarf loose, her eyes alive with quiet patience. She’d been there for hours — the kind of company that doesn’t demand, just endures.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You’ve been staring at that guitar for twenty minutes. Either play it or marry it.”

Jack: “I’m thinking.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s an excuse for not doing.”

Jack: (grinning) “You sound like my producer.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone watching a man avoid the inevitable.”

Jack: (sighing) “John Oates once said, ‘It’s kind of difficult to write a good Christmas song because you have a narrow framework of references you have to work within, and at the same time you want to do something personally original and hopefully somewhat unique.’ I get that now. Every melody I write sounds like someone else’s nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe nostalgia’s the point.”

Jack: “No. Nostalgia’s a trap. You start chasing it, and suddenly you’re just writing ghosts with a melody.”

Host: The tape machine whirred softly in the corner, as if waiting for its cue. Outside, the wind howled faintly — a harmony the studio didn’t ask for.

Jeeny walked closer, leaning against the piano.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re trying too hard to make it original. It’s Christmas, Jack. Nobody wants genius under the tree. They want warmth.”

Jack: “Warmth’s easy. It’s honesty that’s hard. How do you write about joy when the world feels so damn cold?”

Jeeny: “Maybe by remembering that joy isn’t absence of pain. It’s defiance of it.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “So make it music.”

Host: Jack’s fingers found a chord — low, hesitant, beautiful. A sound like a memory he didn’t mean to recall. The note hung in the air, trembling slightly, before dissolving into the room’s quiet.

Jack: (softly) “You know, every Christmas song has the same words — home, love, snow, forgiveness. It’s like trying to build a cathedral with toy bricks.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why they work. They’re small. Honest. Everyone wants the same few things this time of year — warmth, a place to belong, someone to remember them.”

Jack: “And what if no one does?”

Jeeny: “Then the song remembers for them.”

Jack: (looking up at her) “You talk like you’ve written a few.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve just lived the kind people try to write.”

Host: Her words landed gently, almost tenderly. The room felt smaller now, wrapped in the quiet gravity of truth. Jack strummed another chord — softer this time, searching.

Jack: “You know what the real problem is? Every Christmas song pretends the world pauses for magic. But it doesn’t. People still break. They still fight. They still feel lonely — maybe lonelier than ever.”

Jeeny: “Then write that one.”

Jack: “No one wants a sad Christmas song.”

Jeeny: “No one wants an honest one either, but they need it.”

Jack: (pausing) “Maybe that’s what Oates meant — the ‘framework.’ You can’t say too much without breaking the illusion.”

Jeeny: “Then bend it. Not every star has to be on top of the tree. Some belong in the dark sky.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, catching the glow of passing headlights, each flake falling like a slow applause. Inside, the studio light cast a soft circle around them, a little stage for two weary dreamers.

Jack: “You think there’s still beauty left in Christmas?”

Jeeny: “Always. It’s just quieter now. Hiding in small gestures — a letter that finally gets sent, a phone call you don’t expect, a song that reminds you you’re still alive.”

Jack: “That sounds like something worth writing.”

Jeeny: “Then write it. Not for charts. Not for listeners. For the man holding the guitar.”

Host: Jack stared at her, the way someone looks at the person who just turned on the light in a dark room. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and began to play — slow, deliberate chords, rough but honest.

Jeeny sat back down, listening — no words, no advice now. Just music filling the space between them.

Jack: “It’s funny. I keep thinking about Oates — about how he said it’s hard to be unique with something that’s been said a thousand times.”

Jeeny: “Maybe uniqueness isn’t about what you say. It’s about who’s saying it.”

Jack: “You mean… the voice is the difference?”

Jeeny: “Always. Every snowflake falls the same way, but none are the same when they land.”

Jack: “You’re full of metaphors tonight.”

Jeeny: “It’s the season.”

Host: The soundboard lights flickered. The tape spun again. Jack began humming softly — a melody simple and raw. A tune that sounded like December itself: half hope, half ache.

Jeeny: (quietly) “What’s it called?”

Jack: “I don’t know yet.”

Jeeny: “How does it feel?”

Jack: “Like truth dressed up in tinsel.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your song.”

Jack: “You think anyone will like it?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t matter. If it’s honest, it’ll find someone who needs it.”

Host: The last chord lingered — fragile, unfinished. The snow kept falling. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight.

Jack looked at his reflection in the glass — tired, human, redeemed by sound.

Jack: “You know, maybe Oates was right. The framework’s small, but maybe that’s what makes it pure. Like prayer — the words are limited, but what you feel inside them can still be infinite.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “So maybe writing a Christmas song isn’t about creating something new.”

Jeeny: “It’s about remembering something old.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Like love?”

Jeeny: “Like love.”

Host: The tape stopped. The snow outside glowed brighter against the dark.

In the small studio, two souls sat quietly as the world whispered past their window — a night heavy with stillness, creation, and a little mercy.

Because as John Oates said — and as Jack and Jeeny now understood —

It’s hard to be original when the framework is narrow.
But maybe that’s where truth hides best — inside small songs, soft hearts, and the courage to mean something familiar, deeply.

Because the best Christmas songs aren’t written for the world.
They’re written for the ones still trying to believe in it.