It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write.

Host: The afternoon light spilled through the window blinds, painting the floor with gold stripes that looked like the ribs of some sleeping animal. Dust drifted lazily in the air, caught in the beam of a sinking sun. A typewriter sat on the table — its keys chipped, ribbon half-dried, like an old soldier that had seen too many unfinished battles.

The room smelled of coffee, ink, and fatigue.

Jack sat in his chair, hunched forward, the sleeves of his shirt rolled past his elbows, fingers stained with the faint blue of typewriter ink. His grey eyes were fixed on the half-written page in front of him.

Jeeny stood near the window, holding a cup of tea, the steam rising past her face in thin, trembling threads. Her hair caught the light, dark and glinting.

The day was quiet, except for the soft ticking of an old clock, like a reminder that time was always watching.

On the desk lay a note, scrawled in uneven ink:
“It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
— Ernest Hemingway.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that quote for hours, Jack. Are you trying to decode it or argue with it?”

Jack: half-smiling, half-grimacing “Neither. Just wondering how many lies it takes to make a masterpiece.”

Host: He leaned back, exhaling smoke from the cigarette between his fingers, the ash trembling before falling. His tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed something more — a quiet war between pride and exhaustion.

Jeeny: “He didn’t mean lie. He meant mystery. There’s beauty in people thinking art comes naturally. It makes them believe in something magical.”

Jack: “Magical? It’s suffering, Jeeny. It’s sitting in this damn room every night, breaking yourself open until words bleed out — and then people read it and say, ‘He’s gifted.’ Gifted? No. Just scarred.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what he meant. To protect the process — to keep the world from trampling what’s sacred. You don’t owe anyone your pain, Jack. Only the result.”

Host: The light shifted, softer now, turning the room amber. Outside, a pigeon landed on the ledge, cooing faintly — the sound oddly comforting in the stillness.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it’s deceit, isn’t it? Pretending genius when it’s just persistence. Making people think words fall from heaven when they’re really dug out of hell.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that illusion is necessary. The same way an actor hides his nerves behind a smile. Or a surgeon hides fear behind a steady hand. The audience doesn’t need to see the shaking. They just need to believe in the performance.”

Jack: “But belief built on illusion doesn’t last.”

Jeeny: softly “Doesn’t it? Look at history. Hemingway himself — everyone thought he was born with a pen in his hand, but he rewrote the same page forty times. And yet, his readers believed every line. That belief changed them. That’s what lasts.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping gently against the window, a rhythm that filled the silence between them. Jeeny moved closer, setting her cup down. Her voice softened, the tone of someone walking carefully through another’s pain.

Jeeny: “Jack, you’ve been working on this novel for two years. You act like every word you write is a confession. But maybe it doesn’t need to be. Maybe it just needs to be honest.”

Jack: “Honest?” He laughed quietly, bitterly. “You think people want honesty? They want brilliance. They want to believe some people are born touched by fire. You show them the struggle, and suddenly the magic dies.”

Jeeny: “No. The magic becomes real. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened slightly. He turned the page on the typewriter, the sound sharp and final.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world worships finished things but despises the making of them? We love paintings, not painters. We love novels, not the nights they were born from.”

Jeeny: “Because people fear effort. It reminds them they could’ve done more.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, a steady whisper that seemed to fill the space with truth. The typewriter gleamed in the dim light, as if it too were listening.

Jack: “When I was young, I thought writers were gods — that they woke up inspired, wrote masterpieces before breakfast, and drank themselves to sleep out of boredom. Now I know better. They’re just people clawing through doubt.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And Hemingway’s quote isn’t about arrogance. It’s about dignity. The struggle belongs to you; the story belongs to the world. You don’t owe anyone a glimpse of the battlefield.”

Jack: after a pause “So you’re saying the suffering is private, but the illusion is public?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying the illusion is protection. Art is like armor — if you show every crack, it stops defending you.”

Host: The wind outside pushed the rain harder against the glass. A streetlight flickered, its glow bending across Jeeny’s face. Her eyes shone — not from tears, but from conviction.

Jack: “You really think it’s better they don’t know how hard it is?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the moment they know, they stop believing you’re capable of what they can’t do. Inspiration dies in the shadow of explanation.”

Jack: quietly “But isn’t that dishonest?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s grace. You let them think you were born that way — because it gives them hope that someone can be.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now. The smoke from Jack’s cigarette had become a small storm, twisting above the typewriter like a spirit refusing to leave. He stared at Jeeny, and for the first time, his eyes held something like understanding.

Jack: “So we become myths to keep the world dreaming?”

Jeeny: “Not myths — mirrors. Reflecting what people wish they were brave enough to try.”

Jack: “And what if the mirror breaks?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Then it shows the truth. And maybe that’s art, too.”

Host: The rain eased. The last light of day slipped behind the skyline, leaving the room in a soft twilight. The typewriter waited, its keys gleaming like teeth in the dimness. Jack reached for it, his hands steady for the first time that evening.

The click of a single key echoed like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, Hemingway might’ve been right. Maybe it’s not their business how hard it is. Maybe the pain is the price of making it look easy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Let them see the music, not the rehearsal.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, watching as Jack began to type. The letters struck the paper with rhythm — imperfect, uneven, alive. Each word felt earned.

Jack: “Still, sometimes I wish they knew. Just once. How heavy it feels to make beauty look effortless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they already do. Maybe that’s why they keep reading.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The world was clean again — the streets gleaming, the air thick with the scent of renewal.

Jack finished a paragraph and sat back, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

Jeeny looked at him, her voice warm.

Jeeny: “See? You were born that way.”

Jack: smiling softly “No. I just finally learned to hide the struggle.”

Host: The light flickered, then dimmed, leaving only the glow of the desk lamp over the typewriter — a small sun in a quiet universe.

Outside, the city exhaled. Inside, two souls sat surrounded by silence, creation, and truth disguised as ease.

And somewhere, in the rhythm of the keys, Hemingway’s words lived again — not as arrogance, but as understanding:
That the hardest thing in the world is to make art look simple,
and the simplest thing in the world is to forget how hard it was to make.