It's not easy. I got lots of rejections when I first started out.

Host: The morning air was thick with fog, soft and ghostly, curling through the narrow streets of the old district. The sun hadn’t quite broken through — just a pale glow struggling behind the mist, painting the city in tones of silver and sorrow.

Inside a small, dimly lit bookstore café, the smell of old paper, ink, and coffee mingled in the air. The walls were lined with shelves, their spines whispering forgotten stories. A lone typewriter sat near the window, its keys gleaming like tiny teeth under the flicker of a hanging lamp.

Jack sat there, staring at a blank page, his hands tense, his jaw tight. The paper was mocking him — all white and silent, like a battlefield before the first shot.

Jeeny stood near the counter, pouring two cups of coffee. She watched him, quietly. Her eyes held that kind of empathy that doesn’t intrude — the kind that waits.

She walked over, set a cup in front of him, and said softly:

Jeeny: “Rick Riordan once said — ‘It’s not easy. I got lots of rejections when I first started out. If you want to write, you have to believe in yourself and not give up.’ Do you believe that, Jack?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Believe? I don’t know. I’ve been believing for years. The world just keeps saying no louder than I can write yes.”

Host: The steam from the coffee rose between them, curling like a question mark in the still air.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about belief. It’s quiet. It’s not supposed to be louder than the world. It just needs to last longer.”

Jack: (finally looking up, eyes sharp but tired) “Easy to say. You’ve never had your work shredded by an editor. You’ve never seen your dreams come back in the mail with a polite note saying, ‘Not for us.’ How many times do you have to fall before you admit maybe you’re not meant to stand?”

Jeeny: “As many times as it takes to remember why you started walking in the first place.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but the weight behind it struck him. The typewriter keys seemed to hum faintly, as if remembering their purpose.

Jack: “You think persistence fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But surrender guarantees nothing. You think Riordan became a bestselling author because the world handed him luck? He was a middle school teacher, writing at night, after classes, after exhaustion. He kept writing anyway. That’s belief, Jack — not arrogance. Endurance.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-bitter) “Endurance sounds noble until you’ve been enduring for ten years with nothing to show but rejection letters and self-doubt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the test. The universe asks — ‘How badly do you want it?’ And most people quit before the question’s even finished.”

Host: The fog outside began to lift slightly. A faint ray of light spilled across the floorboards, dust motes dancing like tiny planets in a galaxy of quiet despair.

Jack: “So, what, you’re saying failure is necessary?”

Jeeny: “Not necessary — inevitable. But it’s also the only teacher that doesn’t lie. Failure strips away the illusions and leaves you with one question: Do you still care enough to try again?”

Jack: (leans forward, his voice low) “And what if the answer is no? What if caring just hurts?”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “Then hurt. But write anyway. Because not writing — that’s the kind of pain that lasts forever.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, each second like a heartbeat. The world outside began to stir — a delivery truck rumbled past, a street vendor’s voice echoed faintly. But inside, the air was heavy, sacred, like a confession.

Jack: “You talk like belief is some kind of magic. But belief doesn’t pay rent. It doesn’t silence rejection. It doesn’t erase the fear that maybe — just maybe — you’re not good enough.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. It doesn’t. But it’s the only thing that makes you try again when you’re not.”

Host: Jack’s hands clenched the edge of the table. His eyes were distant, filled with a thousand unwritten words. The light caught the faint scar across his knuckle — a relic from the past, from all the times he’d hit the desk in frustration.

Jack: “Do you know how many people want to be writers, Jeeny? Millions. Everyone with a pen thinks they’ve got something to say. Belief isn’t enough. Maybe talent isn’t either.”

Jeeny: “Then what is?”

Jack: (pauses) “Luck. Timing. Knowing someone who knows someone.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No, Jack. It’s staying alive long enough for your chance to arrive. Luck can’t find you if you’re not still standing.”

Host: The silence stretched again, this time gentler, softer. Jeeny took a sip of her coffee. Jack looked back at the typewriter, its metal frame reflecting the faint light.

Jeeny: “Every story you admire — every name you think was born for success — they all started the same way. A blank page. A doubt. A voice saying, ‘Who do you think you are?’ And a whisper that said, ‘Someone who won’t quit.’”

Jack: (rubs his forehead, exhaling) “You sound like those motivational posters people hang in offices.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. But you keep writing because something inside you refuses to die quietly. That’s not a slogan, Jack. That’s survival.”

Host: The fog finally thinned enough to reveal the street beyond the window. A group of students hurried by, laughing, their voices echoing in the crisp air. The city was waking up.

Jack: “You think all this — the rejections, the failure, the humiliation — it’s worth it?”

Jeeny: “If the story inside you matters, yes. Because if you stop, it dies with you. And the world will never know what you almost said.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t care?”

Jeeny: “Then write for the only person who should — yourself.”

Host: The typewriter stood between them now like a quiet judge. Jack’s fingers hovered above the keys. He stared at the blank page, then at Jeeny, and something in his expression softened.

Jack: “You really believe in this, don’t you? The idea that effort counts for something.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I believe in you. The one who keeps sitting here, even when it hurts. That’s already proof you haven’t given up.”

Host: Jack’s chest rose slowly, as if drawing a deeper breath than he had in weeks. He reached for the first key and pressed it. The click echoed — small, but alive. Then another. And another.

The rhythm began — uneven, hesitant, but growing. Like a heartbeat returning after a long silence.

Jeeny watched quietly, a faint smile on her lips.

Jeeny: “See? Belief isn’t about shouting into the world. It’s about whispering to yourself: Keep going.”

Host: The sound of typing filled the room, steady and human. The light through the window grew warmer, touching the edges of the page as the first real sunbeam broke through the fog.

For the first time in months, Jack didn’t look tired — he looked alive.

Jeeny leaned back, her eyes reflecting the gold light, and whispered, almost to herself:

Jeeny: “Every rejection is just the world testing how much you love what you do. If you still write after it hurts — that’s when you’ve already won.”

Host: The typewriter keys sang louder now, like a storm of hope in motion. The café filled with that sound — the pulse of persistence, the hymn of belief.

And as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last trace of fog, the world outside began again — and so did he.