One of my first favorite books was 'The 12 Days of Christmas,'

Host:
The winter evening hummed with soft light and warmth. A small theater café, tucked in the corner of a narrow street, glowed with fairy lights and the smell of cinnamon and espresso. Through the large front window, snowflakes fell in lazy spirals, blurring the outlines of people rushing past — their coats drawn tight, their breaths small clouds of urgency.

Inside, a small piano sat near the wall, its keys slightly yellowed with time. A few chairs circled around it, and in one of them sat Jack, fingers brushing across the keys without playing. The sound of a soft hum escaped him — half memory, half habit. Jeeny, bundled in a scarf, sat opposite, holding a notebook filled with scribbles of lines and lyrics. Her face carried that particular warmth of someone who had found comfort in words since childhood.

Jeeny: smiling softly, reading from her notebook “Lin-Manuel Miranda once said — ‘One of my first favorite books was “The 12 Days of Christmas,” and I would just go up to people and say, “I can sing ‘The 12 Days of Christmas,’” and I would make them sit through me reciting it, and I’d go all the way, each time. I’ve always hooked into lyrics.’”

Jack: laughing quietly, shaking his head “You know, I can see that. A kid standing there, singing ‘five golden rings’ with the intensity of a Broadway finale.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly. It’s not about the song — it’s about the conviction.”

Jack: tilting his head “And that’s what he means by ‘hooked into lyrics,’ isn’t it? It’s not the tune that grabs you — it’s the story buried in the words.”

Jeeny: softly, nodding “Yes. The music’s the heartbeat, but the lyrics are the soul. Miranda found that early — that language could dance if you made it rhythmic enough.”

Host:
The fireplace in the corner cracked softly, throwing light across the wood-paneled walls. A group of college students near the back laughed, rehearsing a Christmas carol of their own — the sound slightly off-key, but full of joy.

Jack began to play a few soft chords, nothing structured — just sound tracing thought.

Jack: quietly “It’s funny, isn’t it? How the first things we memorize as kids — nursery rhymes, songs, jingles — become our first lessons in rhythm and memory. Maybe that’s where every writer begins.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Yes. We learn before we understand. We repeat before we feel. Then one day, a lyric lands differently — and suddenly it’s truth, not tune.”

Jack: nodding “Like how a Christmas song can become philosophy if you live long enough.”

Jeeny: grinning “Or heartbreak.”

Jack: laughing softly “Yeah. That too.”

Host:
The snow thickened outside, the world beyond the glass turning softer, quieter. Inside, the piano’s soft melody lingered, half-spoken between the two of them — not a performance, but a conversation.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low, thoughtful.

Jeeny: softly “You know what I love about Miranda? He never lost that childlike wonder. The way he talks about words — it’s like he still believes they can cast spells.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Maybe they can. We just get too cynical to notice.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. When he says he ‘hooked into lyrics,’ it’s not just about rhymes or cleverness — it’s about believing that language can move people. Literally move them — like theater, like prayer.”

Jack: after a pause “And it does. Think about it — Hamilton, In the Heights — his lyrics are architecture. He builds emotion out of syllables.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “That’s what happens when you treat words like instruments. When you remember that every sound carries a heartbeat.”

Host:
The piano fell silent, leaving behind only the faint echo of its last note. The café had grown quieter — the students had left, the barista was wiping down the counter, and the hum of the city had softened into something like a lullaby.

Jack looked toward the window, the reflection of the snow shimmering across his eyes.

Jack: quietly “You know, it’s kind of beautiful — that he started with The 12 Days of Christmas. Something so simple. It’s proof that passion doesn’t need prestige; it just needs a spark.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Yes. He didn’t start with Shakespeare or Sondheim. He started with a carol. That’s the magic — greatness grows out of the ordinary, if you love it enough.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s what every artist forgets — that the beginning doesn’t have to be profound. It just has to be honest.”

Jeeny: quietly “And playful. Miranda reminds us that creativity isn’t solemn. It’s joy disguised as work.”

Host:
The camera would move slowly through the café — the empty cups, the fire still burning low, the snow melting against the windowpane. There was a softness in the room, the kind that only comes when nostalgia meets gratitude.

Jeeny reached for her notebook, flipping to a page where lines of a song were scrawled. She began to hum under her breath — not words, just rhythm, the prelude to something still forming.

Jack smiled, closing the piano lid gently.

Jack: softly “You know, maybe that’s the secret. To never lose the part of you that still wants to make people listen — even if it’s just a Christmas song.”

Jeeny: smiling, closing her notebook “Exactly. To still believe that a lyric can light up someone’s face. That’s how art stays alive.”

Jack: quietly “So — what would you say your ‘12 Days of Christmas’ was?”

Jeeny: after a thoughtful pause “Probably my first poem. The one I made my mom listen to twenty times in one night.” she laughs softly “I thought I was a genius. She thought I needed sleep.”

Jack: grinning “She was right about both.”

Host:
The camera lingers — two figures framed by candlelight and snow, laughing quietly, surrounded by the echo of lyrics half-sung and dreams half-formed.

And through that laughter, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s words shimmer like melody — humble, joyful, enduring:

“One of my first favorite books was ‘The 12 Days of Christmas,’ and I would just go up to people and say, ‘I can sing ‘The 12 Days of Christmas,’ and I would make them sit through me reciting it, and I’d go all the way, each time. I’ve always hooked into lyrics.’”

Because genius
doesn’t begin in grandeur —
it begins in repetition,
in wonder,
in the stubborn joy of creation.

Every artist
starts as a child reciting something too long,
too loud,
too earnestly —
because they believe that words
mean something.

And perhaps that’s the truest lyric of all:
to keep believing
that language still sings,
that rhythm still heals,
and that the world,
for all its noise,
still listens
when we speak
with music in our hearts.