I'm finding that success is way more time-consuming than failure

Host: The city lay under a thin veil of mist, the streetlights casting amber halos on the wet pavement. A dim café, half-buried between old buildings, hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of cups. The hour was late, the kind of hour where dreams meet regret. Jack sat by the window, his coat draped over the chair, his eyes reflecting the neon glow outside. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her hands around a steaming cup, her gaze fixed on the table, where a scrap of paper bore the words she had just read aloud:
"I'm finding that success is way more time-consuming than failure ever was." — Emma Donoghue.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We spend our lives chasing success, only to find it consumes us more than failure ever could.”

Jack: “That’s because failure is quick, Jeeny. It’s a door that slams in your face, and you move on. Success—that’s a house you have to maintain. Every brick, every light, every crack—you’re responsible for it.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed against the glass, scattering raindrops like tiny silver stars. The sound filled the pause between them, a moment stretched thin by thought.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it worthwhile? To build something that lasts—even if it demands everything you have?”

Jack: “You call that worthwhile? To spend your days chained to what you’ve built? I’ve seen people reach the top and then vanish—not because they failed, but because they were too busy succeeding. Look at Van Gogh—a failure in his time, but at least he painted for himself. The successful ones, the ones who ‘made it,’ became brands, not artists.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost a growl, his fingers tapping the table in a steady rhythm like a clock ticking down. Jeeny’s eyes lifted, their dark warmth cutting through the cold reflection of neon on glass.

Jeeny: “You’re forgetting something, Jack. Success isn’t the enemy—our attachment to it is. It’s not the work that drains us, but the fear of losing what we’ve gained. The moment you start working to keep something rather than to create it—you’ve already failed.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but reality doesn’t care about poetry. The world runs on maintenance, not creation. You build a company, you fight to keep it alive. You publish a book, you tour, you speak, you market. You become a caretaker of your own success. It’s not freedom; it’s a different kind of prison.”

Host: Jeeny drew a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted her cup. Steam curled like ghosts between them. The air was thick, charged with the weight of unspoken truths.

Jeeny: “But even a prison can be sacred, Jack—if you chose it. The monks who spent their lives in silence, the scientists who devoted decades to one idea—they were consumed, yes, but by purpose, not by fear. Isn’t that success, too?”

Jack: “Maybe. But you’re romanticizing it. Purpose sounds noble until it starts eating your sleep, your relationships, your soul. The price of greatness is loneliness, and it’s never on the label.”

Jeeny: “You speak as if failure is peaceful. But failure has its own chains—regret, self-doubt, what-ifs. At least success gives you something to carry.”

Host: The café lights flickered, their glow softening into a golden haze. A waiter passed, his tray rattling with empty glasses, and the rain outside softened, turning into a whisper against the window. The city hum became a backdrop, a low music beneath their words.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Failure is merciful. It ends things. Success—it’s like a hunger that never dies. You feed it, and it wants more. You win, and suddenly you’re terrified of losing. The moment you think you’ve arrived, you start looking over your shoulder.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without that hunger, we’d stagnate. We’d stop growing. Maybe success is time-consuming because it forces us to evolve. It demands we adapt, refine, question. Isn’t that the point of being alive—to keep learning, to keep moving?”

Jack: “Alive? You call the executive who hasn’t seen his kids in three weeks alive? The writer who can’t sleep without checking her sales chart? The inventor who dies at his desk chasing the next breakthrough? That’s not life, Jeeny. That’s servitude.”

Jeeny: “But what if that servitude is love? The writer loves her words, the inventor loves his ideas. Maybe success isn’t a burden—maybe it’s just devotion in disguise.”

Host: The words hung in the air, their echo trembling like the string of a violin just plucked. Jack’s eyes narrowed, the grey in them storm-dark, but his voice, when he spoke, had softened.

Jack: “Devotion or addiction, Jeeny. There’s a thin line. You start for love, and you stay for fear. Every hour, every effort, every choice becomes a payment to a god you no longer believe in.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the solution isn’t to run from success, but to redefine it. To remember why you started in the first place. Success should be a mirror, not a cage.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The streets glistened under the moonlight, and a soft wind drifted in through the half-open door, carrying the smell of wet earth. Jack leaned back, his shoulders loosening, as if some invisible weight had shifted.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe success is only time-consuming because we forget what it’s for. We chase the shadow of it instead of the substance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the work that consumes us—it’s the noise. The metrics, the expectations, the audience. If we could strip that away, maybe we’d find the joy again.”

Jack: “Like the craftsmen in old villages, who built for the sake of beauty, not recognition.”

Jeeny: “Yes. They labored for love, not for legacy. That’s the difference.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them—not empty, but full. The city beyond the glass seemed to pause, as if listening. The rain, the lights, the air—everything stilled, caught in a fragile peace.

Jack: “So maybe Emma Donoghue was right. Success is more time-consuming than failure. But maybe that’s because success asks you to live every minute, while failure lets you sleep.”

Jeeny: “And if that’s the price, then maybe it’s worth paying—as long as you still remember to breathe.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. Outside, the mist lifted, revealing the faint outline of dawn breaking over the city roofs. Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet reflection, their cups empty, their eyes softened by the first light.

The camera would have pulled back, catching the café, the street, the two figures framed in a window of calm—a portrait of two souls who had argued, broken, and then understood.

And as the light grew, the world, once again, called them back—not to fail, not to succeed, but to begin.