I'm not going to put out a Christmas CD until it's coming out of

Host: The recording studio glowed with a soft amber light, a single red bulb above the door flashing the word Recording in faint rhythm. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of coffee, wood, and that strange electric hum of instruments waiting to speak.

Through the glass of the sound booth, Jack sat at the piano — fingers hovering just above the keys, his eyes half closed, as though listening for something just beyond the edge of silence. Jeeny leaned against the console, headphones around her neck, watching him with quiet amusement.

Outside, snow drifted lazily against the window. The world felt paused — caught between stillness and song.

Jeeny: (grinning) “TobyMac once said, ‘I’m not going to put out a Christmas CD until it’s coming out of me naturally.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Ah, the rare artist who still believes inspiration isn’t seasonal.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He’s saying he won’t fake it. Not even for Christmas cheer — and that’s the hardest thing for a creator to resist: manufacturing joy.”

Host: The piano bench creaked as Jack leaned back, eyes on the ceiling lights flickering above. The faint echo of a guitar string hummed in the background — a ghost of unfinished melody.

Jack: “You know, I get that. The industry loves timing — the right season, the right theme, the right market. But art doesn’t work like clockwork. Sometimes it takes years for the right note to arrive.”

Jeeny: “And when it does, you don’t force it. You let it flow. That’s what Toby meant — you can’t decorate sincerity with tinsel. If it’s not born from truth, it’ll sound like noise.”

Jack: “The irony is — everyone wants authenticity on demand.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they’ve forgotten what patience sounds like. The world’s loud now, Jack. Too loud. It wants art fast, not real.”

Host: The soundboard lights blinked softly in green and red, like quiet heartbeat monitors for creativity itself. Outside, a car passed slowly, its tires whispering against wet asphalt.

Jack: “You ever notice how forced joy always feels hollow? Like those radio jingles that sound like someone smiling through exhaustion?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because joy isn’t performative — it’s organic. TobyMac’s saying he’ll only create when his spirit’s aligned with the song. That’s not laziness; that’s reverence.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying waiting is part of the music?”

Jeeny: “Always. The silence before a note is as sacred as the note itself.”

Host: A long pause — thick, gentle — filled the room. Jack pressed a single key, soft, deliberate. The note lingered in the air like a prayer that hadn’t decided whether to rise or stay.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to write songs just to prove I could. It didn’t matter if they were honest, just that they sounded good. Now, I can’t fake it anymore. The older I get, the harder it is to sing something I don’t believe.”

Jeeny: “Because now you know that music isn’t sound — it’s emotion shaped into vibration. The audience might not understand the lyrics, but they feel the lie if it’s there.”

Jack: “Exactly. And maybe that’s what TobyMac meant by ‘naturally.’ The music has to come through you, not from you. You’re the vessel, not the engine.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Like faith.”

Jack: “Yeah. Or love. You can’t force either — not honestly.”

Host: The studio clock ticked quietly, marking a rhythm of its own. Jeeny picked up a pen and doodled on a notepad — small circles, lines, connecting thoughts like constellations.

Jeeny: “It’s funny. People think creating is about control, but it’s really about surrender. Letting something bigger move through you. That’s why so much art today feels empty — too much will, not enough wonder.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So the artist becomes a listener first.”

Jeeny: “Always. The best songs — the real ones — don’t sound written. They sound discovered.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, fingers finding their way back to the keys. He played a few quiet chords — hesitant, searching, as though testing if the room itself was ready to join him.

Jack: “You know, there’s something beautiful about restraint — waiting until something feels right instead of forcing it to exist. Maybe that’s why most great artists fade — not because they lose talent, but because they lose patience.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Inspiration has rhythm too. You can’t rush the divine.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the white flakes glowing against the night like ash from an unseen fire. The faint hum of the studio heater filled the silence between their words.

Jack: “So what happens when it never comes? When you wait and the feeling doesn’t arrive?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Then maybe the silence was the song.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s… terrifyingly profound.”

Jeeny: “So is honesty. That’s what makes it rare.”

Host: The recording light flickered off, but neither of them moved. The piano sat between them like a living thing, its wood still resonating with the memory of the last note.

Jack: “You know, I think about artists like TobyMac — people who’ve been in it for decades. They’ve got the experience, the fame, the platform. They could churn out anything, and people would buy it. But he waits.”

Jeeny: “Because for him, music isn’t a product. It’s prayer. You don’t schedule prayer; you feel it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes his songs timeless. They sound like someone who’s at peace with waiting.”

Jeeny: “And peace is the hardest melody to write.”

Host: The camera panned slowly — the two of them now bathed in the soft glow of the snow-filtered streetlight through the studio glass. Jack’s hand hovered once more over the piano, but he didn’t play. He simply breathed — deeply, quietly — as if learning the tempo of patience.

Host: “And in that stillness,” the world whispered, “they understood TobyMac’s truth — that art, like faith, cannot be forced. That joy is not a performance, but a revelation. That the most beautiful songs are not composed, but confessed — emerging only when the heart, at last, stops striving and starts listening.”

The camera lingered on the piano keys, untouched but ready, gleaming faintly under the dim light — waiting for the moment when the music would come naturally, not as sound, but as surrender.