I'm a strong nonbeliever in the Christmas letter where you don't

Host: The evening was soft and amber, the kind that arrives too early in December, when the streets smell faintly of pine and cinnamon, and windows flicker with the illusion of joy. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but it was promised — the air held that electric pause before the year ends.

Inside a small coffee shop, warm and glowing like a lantern against winter, Jack and Jeeny sat by the frosted window. Between them lay a stack of Christmas cards, a red envelope torn open, its letter half-read and abandoned. The faint hum of a holiday playlist floated overhead — cheerful, rehearsed, mercilessly repetitive.

Jeeny: “B. D. Wong once said, ‘I’m a strong nonbeliever in the Christmas letter — you don’t really read it because it’s full of meaningless information. It doesn’t resonate with the reader, but it means so much to the person who wrote it.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Finally, someone said it. The Christmas letter — the literary equivalent of fruitcake. Nobody wants it, but everyone keeps making it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re cruel. People write those letters because they’re trying to stay connected.”

Jack: “No, they write them to prove something — that life’s still shiny, that the kids are thriving, that the kitchen remodel was a triumph. It’s not communication, it’s confession disguised as celebration.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both.”

Jack: “Both? Come on, Jeeny. These letters are self-portraits painted in denial. ‘Timmy graduated with honors, Bella started violin, and we spent two weeks in Tuscany!’ It’s a résumé of normalcy — not a conversation.”

Jeeny: “You think honesty belongs in a Christmas letter? What do you want — ‘Timmy’s flunking, Bella hates the violin, and Tuscany was hell?’”

Jack: “At least that would be interesting.”

Host: The barista clanged a milk pitcher, and steam curled through the air like ghosted laughter. The window fogged, and Jeeny drew a small circle on the glass with her fingertip — absent, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Those letters are just people trying to translate their lives into something readable. We do it every day. Social media is just the Christmas letter’s louder, glossier cousin.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s all noise. Everyone narrating themselves, nobody listening.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that tragic, in a way? To need so badly to be heard that you’ll write a letter no one reads — just to feel like your story still matters.”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe it’s not tragic. Maybe it’s just… human.”

Host: The light from the window reflected in Jack’s eyes, catching something softer — not pity, not mockery, but the faint ache of recognition.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to send those letters. Typed, double-spaced, always signed with a heart. She’d list every detail — the weather, the neighbors, how proud she was of me. I never read them all.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because I already knew the truth she wasn’t writing. The arguments, the loneliness, the way she tried to convince herself the year had meaning.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe she wasn’t trying to convince herself. Maybe she was reminding herself.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “That life still happened. That even the small, ordinary things were worth recording.”

Jack: “But no one cared.”

Jeeny: “She cared. That’s enough.”

Host: Snow began to fall outside, soft and hesitant — the first flakes of the season. Inside, the café felt smaller, quieter. Jeeny’s voice was low now, threaded with something tender.

Jeeny: “You know, B. D. Wong wasn’t really condemning the letter. He was pointing out its tragedy — that the act of expression doesn’t always guarantee understanding. It’s like shouting into a canyon. You hear your own echo and mistake it for company.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “It’s real. Every writer, every person who’s ever loved, knows that feeling. You give pieces of yourself away, hoping someone will read between the lines.”

Jack: “And when they don’t?”

Jeeny: “You write again.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, marking the slow fall of evening. Outside, the snow thickened, layering the world in silence. Jack picked up one of the envelopes, turning it over in his hands.

Jack: “You think the people writing these letters know no one reads them?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But they still write. Because sometimes the act of telling is the only proof that you lived.”

Jack: “That’s… actually sad.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s brave. We’re all sending out versions of ourselves, Jack. Hoping someone, somewhere, will open the envelope and care.”

Jack: “Even if the letter never arrives?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around the envelope, his reflection faint in the glass. The café around them hummed with strangers — laughter, small talk, music — all those little performances of connection.

Jack: “You ever write one of those?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’ve written a thousand letters that no one read.”

Jack: “Why keep doing it?”

Jeeny: “Because even unanswered words have meaning. Silence doesn’t erase sincerity.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the value isn’t in being heard — it’s in being honest?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The Christmas letter, the diary, the poem, the post — they’re all mirrors. You write not for others, but to remind yourself that you still exist.”

Jack: “Then maybe everyone’s just trying to leave footprints — even if the snow keeps covering them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The candle on their table flickered, fighting the draft each time the café door opened. Jeeny watched the flame, her voice quiet, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about those silly letters?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “They’re proof that someone, somewhere, still believes their life is worth sharing.”

Jack: “Even if it’s meaningless?”

Jeeny: “Meaningless to you doesn’t mean meaningless to them.”

Jack: “So every letter’s sacred to its author.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every life is, too.”

Host: The snow fell heavier, blanketing the window. Jack looked out, the world beyond now blurred — soft, shapeless, forgiving.

Jack: “Maybe the real problem isn’t that people don’t read. Maybe it’s that we stopped listening.”

Jeeny: “And writing’s just the echo of that silence — our way of talking to the world, hoping it’ll talk back.”

Jack: “And does it?”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Sometimes, like now.”

Host: The camera pans back, through the frosted glass, to the two figures framed in the warm glow of lamplight. One candle flickers, one letter lies open, and outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything — gently, patiently — like forgiveness.

Host (softly):
“B. D. Wong wasn’t dismissing the Christmas letter.
He was mourning the distance between what’s written and what’s received —
the space where meaning gets lost,
and yet, where the human heart keeps writing anyway.”

And as the scene fades, we see Jack slipping the letter back into its envelope,
and Jeeny smiling at him —
two strangers, two witnesses,
writing their own quiet version of understanding
into the winter night.