I want to write from my own experience.

Host:
The studio lights glowed soft amber, bleeding into the haze of smoke and sound that filled the room. Outside, Los Angeles sprawled like a restless constellation, the hum of traffic a low, unending beat beneath the night. The walls were covered in acoustic foam, but nothing could silence the pulse of creativity inside — that raw, chaotic vibration that came from chasing truth through noise.

Jack sat near the mixing board, his grey eyes reflecting the flickering LEDs. A half-finished track looped quietly behind them, a bassline that throbbed like a heartbeat. He rubbed his temples, tired but wired — the kind of exhaustion that comes from wrestling art into existence.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on a couch, her knees pulled to her chest, eyes half-closed as she listened. Her long black hair shimmered in the dim light, her face calm but alive — the stillness of someone who knows the storm intimately.

Jeeny: [softly] “Rich Brian once said — ‘I want to write from my own experience.’”
Jack: [half-smiling] “Simple. Honest. Almost too honest.”
Jeeny: “Isn’t that what real art is?”
Jack: [shrugging] “Sure. But everyone says that — ‘from my own experience.’ You ever notice how people hide behind it? It’s a noble way of saying, ‘I’m scared to imagine anything bigger than myself.’”
Jeeny: [opening her eyes] “No, Jack. It’s a brave way of saying, ‘I’m not pretending.’”

Host:
The bassline stopped, leaving the room in silence — thick, heavy, like the pause between two heartbeats. The city noise seeped faintly through the glass, a whisper of sirens and possibility.

Jack: “You think honesty’s enough to make something real?”
Jeeny: [nodding] “It’s the only thing that can.”
Jack: [leaning forward] “I don’t buy that. Honesty’s overrated. You can be honest and still boring.”
Jeeny: “Then you’re not listening right. Honesty doesn’t have to be grand — it just has to be alive.”
Jack: [smirking] “Alive, huh? So if I write about burning toast this morning, that’s art?”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Depends how it burned. Depends what it meant.”

Host:
The faint hum of the speakers returned, a low static buzz that filled the space like tension waiting to turn into sound. Jack reached for a cigarette, tapping it against the table.

Jack: “When Rich Brian says he wants to write from his own experience, he’s not talking about breakfast. He’s talking about struggle — growing up Indonesian, making it in America. That’s heavy. That’s identity.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Experience is identity’s fingerprint. That’s what gives art its voice.”
Jack: [lighting his cigarette] “But isn’t that limiting? If everyone writes from their own life, we just get endless diaries.”
Jeeny: [gently] “No. We get connection. Because when you write from truth, it stops being about you. It becomes about everyone who’s ever felt the same thing.”

Host:
The smoke curled slowly upward, spiraling into the dim air like a thought leaving the mind. Jeeny’s reflection flickered faintly in the window, layered over the city lights — real and unreal at once.

Jack: “You really think people want truth? Most of them want escape. They don’t want your life; they want a prettier version of theirs.”
Jeeny: “Then why do they cry at songs about heartbreak? Why do strangers see themselves in someone else’s pain? Escape is fantasy. Recognition is salvation.”
Jack: [quietly] “And you think art saves?”
Jeeny: “When it’s real — yes. When it’s written from the scar, not the script.”

Host:
A low beat began to pulse again, gentle but insistent. Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling, the light catching it in waves — like mist above water.

Jack: “When I write, I fictionalize. I twist things. I exaggerate. That’s how you make art, Jeeny — you take the dull truth and give it rhythm.”
Jeeny: “No, that’s how you make entertainment. Art doesn’t need rhythm — it needs resonance.”
Jack: [grinning] “Now you sound like a poet.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “Maybe I am. Maybe everyone is, if they’d stop pretending their pain is ordinary.”
Jack: “But pain is ordinary.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s universal.”

Host:
Thunder rolled faintly in the distance, the kind of faraway sound that makes you forget which world you’re in — the real or the imagined. Jack turned off the monitor, plunging the room into near darkness, just the glow of the cigarette left, orange and breathing.

Jack: “So, what then — every artist should bleed onto the page?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Not bleed. Translate. Turn chaos into language. That’s what writing from experience means — taking the mess and making it meaningful.”
Jack: “And what if your experience isn’t tragic? What if it’s ordinary — coffee, commutes, small talk?”
Jeeny: “Then write that. Because honesty isn’t about drama; it’s about presence. Some of the deepest songs ever written came from simplicity. Leonard Cohen once said poetry is just the evidence of life.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “And art’s the confession of it.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Exactly.”

Host:
The soundboard lights blinked in the dark, small galaxies pulsing in mechanical rhythm. Jeeny stood, stretching, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: “You know, people mistake experience for story. Experience isn’t what happens to you; it’s what changes you. That’s what Rich Brian means — to write not about events, but transformations.”
Jack: [after a pause] “So... writing for yourself, but speaking to others?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you tell the truth about yourself, you end up telling someone else’s story too.”
Jack: [thoughtfully] “Funny. Most people spend their lives trying to hide that story.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “That’s why artists exist — to expose the truths everyone else is too polite to touch.”

Host:
A burst of thunder cracked closer now, shaking the windows. Rain began to fall, slow at first, then heavy, drumming against the glass like applause.

Jack reached for his notebook, flipping through pages filled with half-finished verses and abandoned lines. The rainlight shimmered over the ink, making every crossed-out word glisten like a scar turned silver.

Jack: [quietly] “You ever wonder if writing from experience means we’ll never escape ourselves?”
Jeeny: [after a beat] “Maybe. But maybe the goal isn’t to escape — it’s to understand.”
Jack: “And what if understanding hurts?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Then it’s working.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “You make it sound like therapy.”
Jeeny: [smiling back] “No. It’s witness. Art is what happens when pain learns to speak.”

Host:
The storm outside roared louder, but inside the studio, there was peace — a small, strange stillness that comes when truth finally sits down beside you and stops demanding explanation.

Jeeny looked at Jack — his tired face illuminated by the faint blue glow of the soundboard.

Jeeny: “So, you still think writing from experience limits you?”
Jack: [shaking his head] “No. It terrifies me now.”
Jeeny: “Good. That means you’re close to honesty.”
Jack: [softly] “You think honesty can make music?”
Jeeny: “Only honesty can make silence sound like something worth listening to.”

Host:
The rain softened, tapering into a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Jack pressed record, his hand trembling slightly, and began to speak — not into the microphone, but into the quiet between them. Words, low and raw, rising out of somewhere too deep to name.

And as the sound captured his voice — imperfect, human, real — the truth of Rich Brian’s words filled the room like light finding its way through smoke:

that art is not an invention,
but a translation of the soul;
that the most powerful stories
are not imagined,
but remembered.

For in every honest word,
the world finds itself —
and in every honest artist,
we hear our own reflection speaking back.

And when the recording stopped,
the silence that followed
was not emptiness —
it was truth finally exhaled.