I thought it was amazing to work with authors, to get a

Host: The morning light poured through the tall studio windows, scattering across rolls of paper, jars of ink, and the quiet chaos of unfinished sketches. The air smelled of paint, coffee, and possibility — that peculiar scent of creation that lingers in the corners of places where ideas are born.

Jack sat at a cluttered workbench, a pencil tucked behind his ear, staring at a blank book cover template on the table. His grey eyes were distant — the look of a man caught between logic and imagination.

Jeeny leaned against the window frame, the soft sunlight catching in her dark hair, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug. The city outside hummed faintly, but inside, it felt like time had paused, waiting for the next line, the next color, the next truth.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that blank page for fifteen minutes, Jack. Either you’re composing a masterpiece or losing an argument with it.”

Jack: (smirks) “Maybe both. Dick Bruna once said, ‘I thought it was amazing to work with authors, to get a manuscript and try to make up a cover for it.’”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “And I get it. It’s amazing — but also maddening. Trying to wrap an entire world — someone’s blood, their words, their soul — into one image? It’s like trying to bottle lightning with a label.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, walking closer, her steps soft on the wooden floor. The light shifted with her movement, warm and tender, the way morning light forgives imperfection.

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful, though. It’s not about perfection. It’s about translation. Taking what’s invisible and giving it shape.”

Jack: “Or guessing wrong and ruining the author’s vision.”

Jeeny: “You always see the risk first, don’t you?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Someone has to. That’s how you keep the roof from falling.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you’ll miss the sky that way.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but the words carried a quiet challenge. Jack picked up a brush, dipped it in a streak of blue paint, then hesitated midair.

Jack: “You ever think it’s presumptuous? The artist interpreting the writer — the cover speaking before the book does?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s a conversation. The writer whispers the story, and the designer answers with color.”

Jack: (low laugh) “A conversation where one of them never talks back.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Every reader completes it. Every person who picks up the book continues the dialogue. The author writes it, the artist wraps it, and the reader carries it forward.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered toward her, a subtle spark of something between admiration and skepticism. Outside, a pigeon fluttered past the window, a blur of motion against the stillness inside.

Jack: “You sound like one of those people who believe art changes lives.”

Jeeny: “Because it does. Do you know how many kids found courage just from seeing the covers of books they hadn’t even read yet? The look of possibility — that’s what Bruna gave the world. His covers invited people in before they even knew they belonged there.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s easy to romanticize when you’re not the one sweating over the details — the fonts, the spacing, the colors that look different on every printer. It’s a craft, Jeeny. Not a miracle.”

Jeeny: “Why can’t it be both?”

Host: The question hung in the air, soft but unyielding. The fan overhead whispered its slow rhythm, as if waiting for Jack’s answer.

Jack: “Because miracles don’t follow deadlines.”

Jeeny: “And yet — somehow — they happen anyway.”

Host: She moved closer, looking at the blank design in front of him. Her reflection appeared faintly on the glossy surface of the screen beside the manuscript file — her face blending with the unfinished work.

Jeeny: “What’s the story about?”

Jack: “A boy who loses his voice and learns to paint instead.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your cover should feel like silence turning into color.”

Jack: (pauses) “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. But it’s honest. That’s what Bruna understood — the cover doesn’t sell the story, it feels it.”

Host: Jack set the brush down and reached for his notebook. He began sketching — slow, deliberate strokes, as if each line were testing its own existence. A faint rhythm began to build in his movements — focus melting into flow.

Jeeny watched in quiet awe, her eyes tracing the birth of something intangible.

Jack: (murmuring) “Bruna made it sound easy — like matching clothes to a person. But it’s more like surgery. You cut into something sacred.”

Jeeny: “That’s only true if you see art as dissection instead of discovery.”

Jack: “And what’s discovery without risk?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The risk is what makes it worth doing.”

Host: The light deepened, afternoon now bleeding into gold. Dust danced in the air, like small confetti celebrating the unspoken. Jack’s hand moved faster now, shaping an image — a swirl of muted blue, broken by a streak of red.

Jeeny: “What’s that line for?”

Jack: “The boy’s first word — the one he paints instead of speaks.”

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s unfinished.”

Jeeny: “So is every good story.”

Host: Silence. Only the soft scratch of pencil on paper. Then Jack stopped, leaned back, and exhaled — the kind of exhale that means something has landed right, even if it isn’t complete.

Jack: “You know, I never thought of it that way — that design isn’t just decoration, but conversation.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that. It’s empathy in form. You step into another’s world and try to see it as they saw it. Bruna didn’t design for himself — he designed with the writer, for the reader.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe that’s the part I’ve been missing.”

Jeeny: “You weren’t missing it. You were protecting yourself from it.”

Host: Her words lingered like light over water — gentle, refracted, but deep. Jack’s eyes softened. The sharp edges of his skepticism dulled into thought.

Jack: “You really think empathy can make a better cover?”

Jeeny: “I think empathy can make anything better. Even cynicism.”

Host: The studio filled with a long, thoughtful silence. Outside, the sun had dropped lower, its light turning amber, painting everything it touched in slow fire.

Jack: “Maybe Bruna was right. It is amazing — to take someone’s words and try to give them skin.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than amazing. It’s sacred.”

Host: The light faded to dusk. Jack closed his sketchbook and looked at Jeeny — her eyes reflecting the last orange glow of the day.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every time I think the work’s just work, you make it feel alive again.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Maybe that’s my cover design for you.”

Host: He laughed — softly, genuinely — the kind of laugh that made the room warmer.

The evening air drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of rain and streetlights. On the table, Jack’s sketch lay beneath the soft wash of twilight — an unfinished cover, a bridge between two imaginations.

And as the first stars began to appear, it felt as though something wordless had been completed — not the book, not the art, but the understanding between creation and compassion.

For in that shared silence, both artist and dreamer knew:
Every cover is just a door —
and every ending is simply waiting to be opened.