It usually takes me more than three weeks to prepare a good

Host: The theater was nearly empty — rows of velvet seats stretching into the darkness like a slumbering audience. A lone spotlight hung above the stage, its beam slicing through a slow drift of dust. The air carried the faint scent of old wood, ink, and the lingering ghost of applause.

Jack stood on the stage, a small notebook in hand, his grey eyes narrowed as he read over his notes. Jeeny sat at the edge of the stage, legs dangling, a cup of lukewarm coffee beside her. The world outside was alive with noise and motion — but here, time seemed to pause, as if listening.

Host: They were alone in the echo of words that hadn’t yet been spoken.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Mark Twain once said, ‘It usually takes me more than three weeks to prepare a good impromptu speech.’”
She looked at him, teasingly. “That sounds like something you’d say, Jack.”

Jack: (snorting) “Yeah, except I’d need five weeks. People think spontaneity’s easy — but real ‘off the cuff’ is just a lie rehearsed until it sounds alive.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying even authenticity is a performance?”

Jack: “Everything’s a performance. Even honesty. Especially honesty.”

Host: The spotlight flickered, catching the subtle movement of his hands, the restless fidgeting of a man who distrusted both silence and the truth.

Jeeny: “Twain wasn’t mocking performance, though. He was admitting its weight. To seem natural, to make it look effortless — that’s art. The preparation is the illusion.”

Jack: “That’s the irony. People want truth that sounds rehearsed — and lies that sound sincere.”

Jeeny: “You really think sincerity needs editing?”

Jack: “It needs timing. Delivery. Structure. You can’t just vomit truth onto a crowd and expect it to stick.”

Host: The sound of rain began to murmur on the roof, soft and steady, like applause from a ghostly audience. Jack closed his notebook, tossed it onto the piano, and turned toward the empty seats.

Jack: “You ever give a speech, Jeeny? One that mattered?”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Once. At my father’s funeral.”

Jack: (pausing) “And?”

Jeeny: “I rewrote it a hundred times. Then when I stood there, all I said was, ‘He taught me to listen.’ The rest didn’t matter.”

Jack: (softly) “So it took a lifetime to prepare for one sentence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the rhythm like a heartbeat against the theater roof. The light caught Jeeny’s face, serene yet trembling with memory.

Jeeny: “You know what Twain meant, Jack? He wasn’t joking about speeches. He was confessing something about life. That even the spontaneous parts of us — the ones that seem natural — are rehearsed in the quiet corners of the soul.”

Jack: “So we’re all actors in our own sincerity?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re writers who never get to edit in time.”

Jack: (grinning) “You should put that on a mug.”

Jeeny: “And you’d drink from it every morning.”

Host: The light shifted slightly as the wind pressed against the doors. The curtains rustled like tired ghosts. There was something holy about the silence that followed — not empty, but expectant.

Jack: “You ever notice how the best moments — the ones that feel real — always happen after the script ends? When the lines are gone, and you’re forced to improvise?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the irony is, even improvisation needs faith. You have to believe in what comes next.”

Jack: “Faith and wit — Twain’s favorite cocktail.”

Host: Jack walked across the stage, his footsteps echoing like punctuation marks in a long-forgotten poem. He stopped, staring at the audience that wasn’t there.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who can just talk — no fear, no filter. But when I speak, I can hear the echoes before I finish the sentence.”

Jeeny: “Because you think too much.”

Jack: “Because I’ve seen too much. Every word can wound if you aim it wrong.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why Twain prepared. Words are weapons — and the best soldiers check their aim.”

Host: The rain softened again, falling like whispers. The room glowed faintly with reflected city lights, as if the outside world was leaning in to listen.

Jeeny: “Twain was laughing at himself, but he was also warning us. About the illusion of ease. The world praises spontaneity, but it fears vulnerability. That’s why we rehearse — not to sound clever, but to sound safe.”

Jack: (sitting on the edge of the stage beside her) “So we hide the trembling in the timing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They sat there in silence, the world around them quieting into rhythm — two figures beneath the hum of light and rain, speaking to ghosts of truth and timing.

Jack: “You ever think about what Twain would’ve said now? In a world where every word’s recorded, replayed, dissected?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “He’d still take three weeks. Maybe more. Because now, even the impromptu has a history.”

Jack: “Yeah. Authenticity’s got a timestamp.”

Jeeny: “And a filter.”

Host: A faint crack of thunder rolled over the city. The light dimmed further, settling into a warm gold. Jeeny turned to him, eyes soft.

Jeeny: “But there’s something comforting in the preparation, isn’t there? It means we still care about what we say. It means words still matter.”

Jack: “Or it means we’re terrified of saying the wrong thing.”

Jeeny: “That’s what caring is.”

Host: Jack laughed — quietly, like someone finally exhaling after holding their breath too long. He reached for the notebook again, flipping it open to a blank page.

Jack: “Maybe Twain was right. Maybe the secret to sounding spontaneous is learning how to live with what you’ll regret saying.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Or loving what slips out anyway.”

Host: A soft breeze moved through the open door, carrying the scent of wet pavement and the faint echo of distant applause — perhaps from the ghosts of all those who’d spoken too late, or too soon.

Jack looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting, and for once, there was no irony in it.

Jack: “Three weeks to prepare an impromptu speech, huh?”

Jeeny: “Maybe longer, if it’s honest.”

Jack: “Then I’ll start tonight.”

Host: The spotlight dimmed, the stage fell into darkness. Outside, the rain eased to a soft patter, like fingers gently drumming on the edge of time.

Host: And in the darkness — the truth of Twain’s humor flickered like a candle:
That behind every effortless word, there are hours of unseen labor.
That even the spontaneous is a sculpture — carved from hesitation, refined by care.

Host: And sometimes, it takes a lifetime to sound like yourself for the first time.