I'm a novelist who read a lot as a kid. When you grow up on books

Host: The library was nearly empty, its lights dimmed to a quiet amber. Outside, the rain tapped lightly on the tall windows, the sound gentle but rhythmic, like a metronome keeping time with the breathing of the books. Dust motes drifted through the air, suspended in the golden glow of the reading lamps.

Jack sat at a long oak table, a stack of novels beside him — spines cracked, pages annotated, covers worn with love. His fingers traced the edge of one book absently, as though touching something sacred. Jeeny entered quietly, her coat still damp from the rain, her eyes alight with the kind of wonder only a room full of stories could inspire.

Between them lay the quote, written in Jeeny’s notebook in neat, looping script:
“I’m a novelist who read a lot as a kid. When you grow up on books and then grow up to write books, famous authors are a lot more meaningful to you than TV and movie stars.” — Claire Scovell LaZebnik

Jeeny: “You know, I think I understand her completely. When I was little, authors felt like gods. They didn’t just entertain — they built worlds I could live inside. Actors play in someone else’s dream. Writers create the dream itself.”

Jack: “Or the illusion of one. Books are beautiful lies — elegant constructions made of language and longing. You fall in love with ghosts that never lived, and call it meaning.”

Host: The clock above them ticked softly, each second a whisper against the hush of the room. Jeeny smiled faintly, unfazed by his cynicism.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But those ghosts shape who we are. They teach us empathy, imagination — things the real world often forgets. Growing up on books is like being raised by invisible mentors.”

Jack: “Invisible, yes — and unattainable. You build your identity on fiction and then wonder why reality disappoints you. It’s dangerous, Jeeny, loving words more than people.”

Jeeny: “And yet here we are, talking because of words. You can’t escape them, Jack. Every truth you’ve ever known was first written down by someone braver than you.”

Jack: “Or more delusional. Writers are just people who never got over their childhoods — who still believe imagination can fix the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it can’t fix it. But it can translate it. That’s something.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, casting their shadows long across the wooden floor. Rain streaked the glass in long, trembling lines — as if the outside world wanted to listen in.

Jack: “You talk about authors like saints. But most of them wrote out of despair, not hope. Dostoevsky in exile, Kafka in fear, Woolf walking into the river. The page doesn’t save you — it consumes you.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still read them.”

Jack: “Because their pain is honest. But that’s not worship — it’s recognition.”

Jeeny: “You call it recognition, I call it reverence. They bled so we could understand what bleeding feels like without dying of it ourselves.”

Host: She moved closer, pulling a chair beside him. The faint rustle of her coat against the wood sounded like turning pages.

Jeeny: “When I was ten, I found a copy of Jane Eyre in a thrift shop. I didn’t even understand half of it, but it felt like truth. I remember thinking, whoever wrote this knew something I hadn’t learned yet. And I wanted to know it.”

Jack: “So that’s what writers are to you — prophets of emotion?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. They name the things we feel but can’t articulate. Isn’t that what LaZebnik means? For some of us, authors are our celebrities — not because they’re famous, but because they helped us survive.”

Jack: “You make reading sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “It is. Only, the scriptures change with every book.”

Host: A gust of wind swept against the windows, the rain growing louder — a soft percussion to the rhythm of their debate. The air smelled faintly of old paper, the perfume of memory.

Jack: “You know what I remember? Reading as a kid and believing books were infinite. That there would always be another story waiting to save me. Then I grew up and realized — most books are written to sell, not to save.”

Jeeny: “But some still do both. Isn’t that enough? If even one story lights something in you, that’s meaning. That’s legacy.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the irony is — the writers who mean the most to us never know it. They die believing they failed, while their words quietly build people they’ll never meet.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes them immortal.”

Jack: “Immortality’s a cruel myth. It doesn’t comfort the dead.”

Jeeny: “It comforts the living. And that’s what art’s for.”

Host: The light caught the spine of a nearby book — Middlemarch — its gold letters glowing faintly as if the author herself had whispered agreement from the shelf. Jeeny’s gaze lingered there for a moment, her voice softening.

Jeeny: “You know, sometimes I think growing up with books ruined me for reality. I expect conversations to have subtext, people to change by the last chapter, life to reward virtue.”

Jack: “And instead you get chaos and repetition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But maybe that’s why I keep reading — because stories are how we practice hope.”

Jack: “Or denial.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Denial is pretending pain doesn’t exist. Hope is believing it can be transformed.”

Host: He looked at her then, really looked — as though the words had cracked something inside him. His eyes softened, the sharpness giving way to thought.

Jack: “You ever think about how lonely writing is? Sitting there, talking to ghosts, hoping one day someone like you will listen?”

Jeeny: “It’s not loneliness. It’s conversation across time.”

Jack: “A conversation the writer never hears.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe the listening is enough. Maybe that’s the point — that someone, somewhere, feels seen because a stranger once dared to speak.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The room felt cleaner, clearer. The faint smell of ozone seeped through the open crack of the window, mingling with the scent of old stories.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic — this idea of writers as unseen guardians of humanity.”

Jeeny: “Not guardians — witnesses. They write what we can’t face, and in doing so, make us braver.”

Jack: “Then maybe readers are the real heroes. Without them, the words are just noise in an empty room.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why the relationship between writer and reader feels sacred. We complete each other’s sentences without ever meeting.”

Host: A slow smile crossed his face, reluctant but genuine. He picked up the nearest book and opened it, his fingers brushing the margin where someone — maybe decades ago — had underlined a single sentence.

Jack: “You ever wonder who reads us, Jeeny? I mean, when we’re gone. What we leave behind — will anyone ever find meaning in our noise?”

Jeeny: “If you live honestly, Jack, someone always does. Maybe not a million people. But one. And for that one person, you’ll be a famous author — the kind LaZebnik meant.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The golden light deepened, wrapping around them like a quiet benediction. The books seemed to breathe with them, patient witnesses to another pair of souls trying to define what mattered.

Jeeny: “We outgrow a lot of things — places, people, fears. But never the stories that built us.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the dream — to write something that builds someone else.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lamps hummed softly. Outside, the first fragile edge of moonlight slipped through the clouds, brushing the shelves in silver.

In that silence — book-lined, word-saturated, sacred — they sat together,
two readers who had grown into their own unwritten stories,
holding between them the truth of LaZebnik’s words:

that for some, authors are constellations,
each word a star that reminds us
we are never too small
to dream in the language of the page.