I was such a sullen, angry, sad kid. I'm sure there are writers

Host:
The night was cold, fragile, and still, hanging over an old library café tucked into a corner of Santiago, its walls lined with dusty books and the faint smell of cinnamon and ink. Outside, the rain dripped softly on cobblestones, a steady, thoughtful rhythm—like the heartbeat of memory.

A single lamp cast a pool of amber light over a small table by the window. Jack sat there, his fingers tapping lightly against a coffee mug, steam curling into the air like a ghost reluctant to leave. Across from him, Jeeny sat with a notebook open, her eyes wandering, her pen unmoving, as if words were gathering inside her but refusing to fall.

Jeeny:
Isabel Allende once said, “I was such a sullen, angry, sad kid. I'm sure there are writers who have had happy childhoods, but what are you going to write about? No ghosts, no fear. I'm very happy that I had an unhappy and uncomfortable childhood.”

Jack:
(smiles faintly, voice low)
That’s a hell of a confession—to be happy about being unhappy. Only writers would say that without irony.

Host:
He leans back, his gray eyes catching the light like shards of steel and moonlight. The rain traced lines down the window, and beyond it, a child’s laughter echoed briefly, thin and distant—like a sound from another life.

Jeeny:
It’s not about glorifying pain, Jack. It’s about gratitude for depth. Pain digs you open. It gives you something to write from.

Jack:
Or it warps you. Turns you into someone who keeps mining their scars for inspiration. There’s a difference between processing pain and feeding on it.

Jeeny:
(softly)
And yet, what else gives life texture? Happy childhoods are beautiful—but they’re flat. They teach comfort, not character.

Jack:
(smirking)
So suffering’s a prerequisite for wisdom? That’s convenient for philosophers and sad poets, I guess.

Jeeny:
(sharply)
No, not suffering itself—survival. The act of going through it and still choosing to create something. That’s what makes people like Allende remarkable.

Host:
A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling the glass. The lamp flame flickered, then steadied. The light on their faces shifted—Jeeny’s warm, soft; Jack’s angular, cold. Two halves of the same reflection.

Jack:
You sound like pain is a gift.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Some gifts don’t come wrapped in kindness.

Jack:
That’s poetic nonsense. Pain destroys as often as it builds. You just happen to be romantic enough to write from the ashes.

Jeeny:
(defiant)
And you’re pragmatic enough to live among them without ever lighting a fire.

Host:
A long silence. The rain outside thickened, tapping harder against the glass, a slow percussion of memory. Jack looked down, tracing the rim of his cup with one finger, his reflection fractured in the coffee’s surface.

Jack:
I had a rough childhood too. But I don’t thank it. I don’t romanticize it. It didn’t make me deep—it made me cautious.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s your version of depth.

Jack:
No. It’s just a wall. You build enough of them, and you stop seeing the horizon.

Jeeny:
(gently)
Walls can protect, but they also trap.

Jack:
You sound like you’ve never been trapped.

Jeeny:
(pauses)
I have. That’s why I know the difference.

Host:
Their eyes met—his, a storm of logic and fatigue; hers, a quiet flame that refused to be extinguished. For a moment, the air between them was filled with everything they hadn’t said.

Jack:
You really think unhappiness makes you creative?

Jeeny:
Not automatically. But it forces you to notice. People who’ve been hurt see the world differently. They see details others miss—the cracks, the silences, the invisible bruises in other people’s smiles.

Jack:
So pain’s an education, then.

Jeeny:
The oldest kind.

Host:
A clock on the wall ticked faintly, each second landing like a small reminder of time’s indifference. The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of cold air and the faint sound of distant church bells.

Jack:
You know what bothers me? The way people wear their trauma like medals. Every writer these days talks about their “dark childhood” like it’s a brand.

Jeeny:
(leans in, quietly fierce)
Because we’ve built a world that only listens when you’re broken.

Jack:
(sighs, rubbing his temple)
That’s... true. I hate that it is, but it’s true.

Jeeny:
Allende wasn’t bragging. She was acknowledging. You can’t outrun the ghosts, so you might as well give them a place to speak.

Jack:
And if the ghosts never shut up?

Jeeny:
Then you write until they do.

Host:
Her words lingered, floating above the steam rising from their cups, twisting into shapes like spirits escaping old stories. Jack looked at her, something shifting behind his gray eyes—not surrender, but recognition.

Jack:
So you really think happiness makes people shallow?

Jeeny:
No. I think comfort does. Happiness that’s been earned—that’s deep. But comfort that’s never questioned? That’s a cage padded in silk.

Jack:
(half-smile)
You’re terrifying when you talk like that.

Jeeny:
(smiles back)
Good. It means I’m honest.

Host:
The rain began to soften, thinning into a kind of mist that blurred the streetlights outside. The city glowed faintly, like an old film reel running in slow motion.

Jack:
You know, I envy people like Allende. To look back at a painful past and call it a blessing—that’s power.

Jeeny:
It’s forgiveness. Not of others, but of time itself.

Jack:
And of yourself.

Jeeny:
Exactly.

Host:
Their voices fell quieter, their hands now resting loosely near one another on the table, not touching, but almost. The light caught the edge of Jeeny’s notebook, where a few words were finally written: ghosts, fear, gratitude.

Jack:
You think we could ever be grateful for what hurt us?

Jeeny:
Not right away. But maybe one day, when we understand that the hurt was the teacher, not the punishment.

Jack:
(softly)
That’s what she meant. The unhappiness wasn’t the story—it was the soil.

Jeeny:
And the roots grow deep in rough ground.

Host:
The rain had stopped. The city outside was quiet again, refreshed, new, the air alive with the faint smell of earth. The lamp’s glow stretched long shadows across their faces, painting them in tones of gold and forgiveness.

Jack:
(looking out the window)
You know, maybe unhappiness isn’t something to escape. Maybe it’s something to understand.

Jeeny:
(closing her notebook)
And once you understand it, you don’t need to write about ghosts anymore. You just write about life.

Host:
They sat in silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled. The books around them seemed to breathe, their spines like quiet witnesses to centuries of people who turned their pain into pages.

Outside, the first light of dawn began to rise, brushing the rooftops with a soft gray-blue.

Two souls, once bruised by childhood, sat across from each other—no longer angry, not quite healed, but quietly thankful.

For their ghosts.
For their fear.
For their depth.

And as the sunlight touched the window,
it felt, finally, like the beginning of something that didn’t hurt—
but still remembered.