Quite often I can be in a bookshop, standing beneath a great big

Host: The bookstore was nearly empty — that soft hour just before closing, when the smell of paper and coffee was at its sweetest, and the world outside had gone quiet enough for pages to whisper. The fluorescent lights above flickered gently over rows of untouched bestsellers and discounted dreams.

Rain tapped lightly on the large front window, and beyond the glass, the city lights shimmered like sentences unwritten.

Jack stood in the fiction aisle, a copy of The Firm in one hand, his credit card in the other. Jeeny, across from him, was perched on a step stool, flipping through a poetry collection, her brow furrowed in that soft, meditative way readers wear when they’re half in this world and half in the one they’re reading.

Jack: “John Grisham once said, ‘Quite often I can be in a bookshop, standing beneath a great big picture of myself and paying for a book with a credit card clearly marked John Grisham, yet no one recognises me. I often say I'm a famous author in a country where no one reads.’”

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Imagine that. To be famous, but invisible at the same time.”

Jeeny: “That’s not invisibility. That’s irony — the quiet kind that life saves for the successful.”

Host: Her voice was playful, but under it was something deeper — an understanding of the loneliness success can disguise.

Jack: “You think he’s bitter?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he’s honest. Fame’s not always about being known. Sometimes it’s just about being… used. People love the work, but not the worker.”

Host: The cashier behind the counter was yawning, scrolling on her phone, oblivious to the quiet philosophy unfolding between the aisles.

Jack: “There’s something tragic about that. To create worlds that millions live in, but to walk through your own unnoticed.”

Jeeny: “That’s every artist’s paradox, isn’t it? You spend your life trying to make people see what you see, but you yourself fade from view in the process.”

Host: Jack ran a finger along the book’s glossy cover, tracing the embossed name.

Jack: “John Grisham. The brand. Not the man.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame erases identity. You become the echo of your own name.”

Jack: “You think that’s what he meant — that his country loves his books more than it loves reading itself?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he’s saying fame feels different when your art becomes more visible than your soul.”

Host: The light above them flickered again, briefly dimming, as if to punctuate her words.

Jack: “You ever think about that? What it means to be known — but not seen?”

Jeeny: “All the time. The world doesn’t want people anymore; it wants personas. The self that fits in headlines, not the one that breathes in silence.”

Jack: “But maybe there’s peace in that anonymity. Maybe that’s why he says it with humor — because he knows recognition is overrated.”

Jeeny: “Peace, yes. But also absurdity. Imagine being surrounded by your own face and still being invisible. It’s like being haunted by your own reflection.”

Host: She closed her book, resting it on her lap, her eyes gleaming with that quiet compassion she carried like a secret.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange, Jack? The truest artists don’t crave recognition — they crave resonance. Grisham doesn’t need people to know his face. He just wants them to feel his words.”

Jack: “But that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The world rewards faces, not souls.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the reward isn’t the point. Maybe the work itself is the recognition.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, turning the window into a sheet of trembling silver. Jack looked at his reflection — blurred, distorted — and laughed softly.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what fame really is: seeing your own reflection distorted in the eyes of a thousand strangers.”

Jeeny: “And realizing that none of them really see you.”

Host: She stood, setting the poetry book back on the shelf with care.

Jeeny: “You know, Grisham’s line isn’t about fame at all. It’s about the loneliness of creation. He’s saying — I’ve built something everyone recognizes, but no one remembers who built it. That’s what every writer fears.”

Jack: “And yet they keep writing.”

Jeeny: “Because writing isn’t about being remembered. It’s about leaving something worth remembering.”

Host: The cashier cleared her throat. “We’re closing soon,” she called gently, without looking up.

Jeeny smiled. “See? Even now, the world keeps moving. That’s the beauty of it.”

Jack walked to the counter, handing over the book. The cashier rang it up without noticing the name on his credit card. The irony didn’t go unnoticed.

Jack: “You think he minds? That no one recognizes him?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he’s free. Fame without recognition is the sweetest kind. You get to be immortal without interruption.”

Jack: “That’s… poetic.”

Jeeny: “Poetic truth always sounds strange until you’ve lived it.”

Host: The receipt printed with a mechanical whirr. Jack tucked it into the book and smiled faintly.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Everyone wants to be famous until they realize fame isn’t a mirror — it’s a magnifying glass.”

Jeeny: “And it burns the same hand that holds it.”

Host: They stepped out into the night. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the streetlights shimmered across puddles like liquid gold.

Jeeny pulled up her hood, walking beside him through the wet quiet.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Grisham was saying all along — that being unseen doesn’t mean being forgotten. Sometimes the greatest presence is the invisible one.”

Jack: “So the writer disappears, but the words stay?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s immortality — to vanish beautifully into your own creation.”

Host: The camera lingered on their backs as they walked away, their reflections rippling in puddles, two anonymous figures beneath a vast city sky.

Inside the closed bookstore, a poster still hung above the register — Grisham’s face smiling down over the stacks of his novels, watching the world that had forgotten to look up.

And in that image, his words echoed softly — not bitter, not sad, but wry and wise, like laughter whispered through pages:

“I’m a famous author in a country where no one reads.”

Because fame fades,
but the story endures —
and sometimes the greatest gift of creation
is to be known
not by face,
but by voice.

To write yourself invisible
so the words themselves
can finally be seen.