I think people who are creative are the luckiest people on earth.

Host: The morning light came through the café windows like a benediction, soft and golden, the kind that makes the air feel hopeful before the world has had time to disappoint it. The place was quiet, except for the clinking of cups, the low hum of conversation, and the slow rhythm of a barista frothing milk in the background.

At a small table by the window, Jack sat with a notebook open, his pen unmoving, his coffee cooling beside him. He stared at the page with the weary focus of a man wrestling not with ideas, but with belief. Across from him, Jeeny arrived — small, radiant, alive with the easy warmth of someone who believes the universe hums in her favor. She set down her bag, smiled, and sat.

Jeeny: “Judy Collins once said, ‘I think people who are creative are the luckiest people on earth. I know that there are no shortcuts, but you must keep your faith in something Greater than You, and keep doing what you love. Do what you love, and you will find the way to get it out to the world.’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “You and your quotes. One of these days you’ll walk in here without preaching.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not today.”

Host: The sunlight caught in her hair, turning it almost amber. Jack looked at her, not annoyed, but curious — the way a skeptic studies a believer, half hoping to be proven wrong.

Jack: “You think creativity’s luck?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not in the lottery sense. More like grace — something that moves through you, not from you.”

Jack: “Grace? You make it sound divine. Most artists I know would call it torment.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s because torment is part of grace. You think Judy Collins didn’t bleed for her songs? The point isn’t the pain — it’s that she kept faith in something beyond it.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t finish novels, Jeeny. Or pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair. But faith at least keeps you trying.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gray eyes fixed on the window. Outside, people hurried, talked, looked down at phones — the choreography of the modern world, everyone chasing something invisible.

Jack: “You know, when I started writing, I thought love for the craft would be enough. But then reality shows up — deadlines, rejection letters, algorithms that decide what art matters. It’s hard to keep believing in something ‘Greater than You’ when it’s the lesser things that pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem is thinking it’s either/or. Maybe faith doesn’t replace struggle — maybe it sanctifies it.”

Jack: “Sanctifies?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It turns the act itself into prayer. Collins didn’t say, ‘Have faith and everything will work out.’ She said, ‘Have faith and keep doing what you love.’ It’s the doing that becomes sacred.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it had that quiet conviction that always cut through Jack’s cynicism like sunlight through fog.

Jack: “So art is a religion now?”

Jeeny: “It always was. Look around — songs, stories, films, paintings — people creating meaning out of chaos. Isn’t that worship?”

Jack: (smirking) “Then God must be exhausted.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think He loves watching people try.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed, a sound like applause. The world outside brightened as the clouds broke, and the café seemed to glow with an unspoken optimism.

Jack: “You really believe the universe rewards passion?”

Jeeny: “I believe the universe listens to it. Creativity isn’t about outcome — it’s about alignment. When you do what you love, you move in rhythm with something larger than ego. That’s when things happen.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when things do happen. But what about those who keep trying and never get seen?”

Jeeny: “You think obscurity means failure?”

Jack: “Doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Not if you’re still creating. Collins said, ‘Do what you love, and you’ll find the way to get it out to the world.’ Maybe that world isn’t millions of people. Maybe it’s one. Maybe it’s yourself.”

Host: Jack looked down at his notebook — still blank. His reflection shimmered faintly in the coffee’s dark surface.

Jack: “You make it sound noble — the idea of creating for its own sake. But it feels like shouting into a void sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the void needs to hear it.”

Jack: “You think art matters to the void?”

Jeeny: “No. But it matters to the one shouting. That’s what she meant — the act of creating is the bridge between you and the Greater Something.”

Host: The sunlight grew stronger now, filling the café with a soft radiance. The light spilled over their table, illuminating the open notebook between them.

Jeeny: “Why did you start writing, Jack?”

Jack: “Because I didn’t know how else to explain what I felt.”

Jeeny: “And why did you stop?”

Jack: “Because I realized no one cared.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “That’s where you’re wrong. You cared. And that’s what makes you lucky — not success, not applause — the ability to care deeply enough to create.”

Jack: (quietly) “Luck feels like a cruel word for it.”

Jeeny: “Then call it grace.”

Host: The words hung between them, soft but heavy, like incense in a chapel. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled, and when he opened them again, something in his expression had changed — not belief, but openness.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… the artist’s job isn’t to succeed. It’s to stay faithful.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faithful to the work, to the love that started it. Creation is communion. Everything else is noise.”

Host: A bird landed on the window ledge — small, brown, ordinary — and yet, in that light, it seemed to belong to a world that understood exactly what they were talking about.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s the hardest part — not losing faith when no one’s watching.”

Jeeny: “Then do it like the bird does. Sing anyway.”

Host: The moment lingered — a fragile peace born of two opposing truths meeting halfway. The café filled with the hum of life again — laughter, footsteps, the scent of roasted beans and rain-soaked air.

Jack picked up his pen and began to write, slowly at first, then faster, as though something had finally shifted inside him.

Jeeny watched, smiling — the quiet satisfaction of someone who believed in miracles small enough to fit inside a heartbeat.

Host: Outside, the world moved, vast and indifferent — but inside that small café, creation had begun again, humble and holy.

For Judy Collins had been right —
those who create are the luckiest people on Earth,
because they keep finding ways to bring light out of darkness,
to turn faith into form,
and to sing, even when the sky is silent.