The amazing thing now is that most of those so-called critics who

Host: The pub was small, old, and full of smoke — a relic of another century that refused to leave this one quietly. Rain tapped against the windows, blurring the streetlights into streaks of gold and shadow. Inside, the fireplace glowed, throwing its warmth across worn wood, cracked leather, and the faint hum of evening conversation.

At the far table sat Jack and Jeeny — two half-finished pints between them, a small mountain of empty glasses nearby, and the unmistakable look of reflection in their eyes.

Jack: grinning wryly “Brian Lumley once said, ‘The amazing thing now is that most of those so-called critics who were telling me to find my own voice seem to have lost theirs.’”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, leaning back against the booth, the firelight catching the curve of her cheek.
Jeeny: “That’s brilliant. It’s not bitterness — it’s vindication.”

Jack: “Yeah. The old poetic revenge — time proving that authenticity lasts longer than authority.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s amazing how the loudest critics always demand originality — but never risk it themselves.”

Jack: “Because criticism is safer than creation. You don’t bleed on the page when you’re dissecting someone else’s wound.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, drumming softly against the windowpanes like an audience applauding from outside. The fire popped, the flames bending toward them as though listening.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s a deeper irony there. The critics who told him to find his voice didn’t really want him to find his voice. They wanted him to find one they approved of.”

Jack: “Exactly. They confuse discovery with conformity. They say, ‘Be original — but not too much.’”

Jeeny: “It’s the same in every field, isn’t it? People love innovation until it threatens their comfort.”

Jack: “Or their control.”

Host: Jack took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flicking toward the fire, its reflection dancing in the amber surface of his beer.
Jack: “But there’s something powerful in that image — a writer who refused to bend, standing decades later while the ones who shaped him have gone silent.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the poetry of endurance — when your work becomes your argument.”

Jack: “And your silence becomes your victory.”

Jeeny: “You think Lumley was gloating?”

Jack: “No. He’s marveling. That word — amazing — it’s not smugness, it’s awe. The kind of quiet satisfaction that comes when the universe finally hums in tune with your truth.”

Jeeny: “Like the sound of a voice finally belonging to itself.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The door creaked open, a gust of rain and wind swirling in before the barman shut it again. The smell of wet coats and cold air lingered briefly before the warmth swallowed it.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how those who insist on defining others always end up voiceless themselves? It’s like they spend all their energy analyzing art instead of living it.”

Jack: “Because living requires vulnerability — and that’s the one thing critics fear most.”

Jeeny: “And the one thing artists can’t avoid.”

Jack: “Right. Every creation is an act of exposure. Every critic hides behind distance.”

Host: The rain softened, now a quiet whisper. The pub had mostly emptied — only the hum of the fridge and the crackle of the fire remained.

Jeeny: “You know what I think is most amazing? The way time has a sense of irony. The artist they mocked for being too different becomes timeless — and their words, the ones that defined, disappear like smoke.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because criticism is written on sand. Creation’s carved in bone.”

Jeeny: “And bone endures.”

Jack: “Especially the ones that cracked for the work.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, tracing the rim of her glass.
Jeeny: “It’s funny — the phrase ‘find your voice’ has always felt strange to me. It assumes the voice isn’t already there, just waiting for permission.”

Jack: “Exactly. The world doesn’t give you a voice. It gives you noise. You build a voice by daring to sound different inside it.”

Jeeny: “And then the world tries to turn down the volume.”

Jack: “But the amazing ones — the Lumleys, the rebels, the madmen — they turn it back up.”

Jeeny: “And in the process, they make silence louder.”

Jack: “Now that’s art.”

Host: The fire dimmed, its glow soft and steady, flickering against the worn wood of the table. There was something reverent in the stillness between them — two people sitting in the company of ghosts: creators, critics, voices once loud and now faded.

Jeeny: “You think everyone loses their voice eventually?”

Jack: “Only the ones who never knew what they were speaking for.”

Jeeny: “And the rest?”

Jack: “The rest evolve. They stop shouting to be heard and start whispering to be remembered.”

Jeeny: “Like Lumley.”

Jack: “Exactly. He found the frequency that lasts longer than applause — truth.”

Host: A single log cracked in the fire, sending sparks upward like brief stars, fading just as quickly.

Jeeny: “You know what’s tragic, though? That we live in a world where people are still told to find their voice — as if it’s something external, a trick to be learned.”

Jack: “Yeah. When really, finding your voice is just the process of unlearning everyone else’s.”

Jeeny: “That’s the liberation Lumley’s talking about. The amazing thing isn’t that the critics lost their voices — it’s that he finally heard his without them.”

Jack: “That’s the full circle, isn’t it? When your authenticity outlasts their authority.”

Jeeny: “And your silence speaks louder than their commentary.”

Jack: raising his glass slightly “To all the so-called critics who forgot what passion sounds like.”

Jeeny: clinking her glass against his “And to the artists who never stopped listening.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving behind only the gleam of puddles reflecting the streetlights outside. The world beyond the window was quiet, alive, and waiting for the next story to be told.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat there — two figures framed in amber and shadow — the echo of Brian Lumley’s words settled over them like a benediction:

that the amazing thing about time
is how it humbles the loud and lifts the true;

that voices built on conviction
outlast the ones built on commentary;

and that, in the end,
the critics who demand originality
will vanish into the noise —

while the artist,
against all odds,
will stand in the silence he created,
his voice finally,
and forever,
his own.