The idea that we should write towards the unknown aspects of our

Host: The city library was nearly empty, its hushed air filled with the faint smell of paper, dust, and rain tapping against the high windows. The lamps along the tables glowed softly, casting golden halos across rows of books that seemed to hold the world’s forgotten dreams. It was that kind of night — when time stilled, when thought itself became audible.

Jack sat in the corner, his notebook open, a pen resting between his fingers. His face, sharp and thoughtful, was etched with the fatigue of someone who had been wrestling with himself on the page. Across from him, Jeeny watched, her brown eyes curious and alive, a faint smile tracing her lips as though she already knew what he was about to confess.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that same line for twenty minutes.”

Jack: “It’s not a line. It’s a wall.”

Jeeny: “Walls make better stories than lines.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped her — light, teasing, yet filled with empathy. Outside, a car passed, its headlights flashing briefly across the bookshelves, then fading into the rain.

Jack: “I’m trying to write something new. Something that doesn’t sound like me. But everything I touch feels recycled — the same voice, same logic, same broken optimism.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re scared of disappearing.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “Writers cling to their own pain because it’s proof they exist. The moment you step outside yourself, you risk losing the only story you know how to tell.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, his eyes narrowing in thought. The rain fell harder now, like a percussion to their conversation.

Jack: “You sound like my subconscious.”

Jeeny: “And what does it tell you?”

Jack: “That I’ve been writing myself for years. Every character is me wearing a different coat. Every ending is my confession rewritten in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Then stop hiding. Write someone you’d never dare to be.”

Jack: “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have my ghosts.”

Jeeny: “No. But I have my own.”

Host: She stood, walked to the window, and looked out into the city — the lights, the rain, the blurred reflections in the glass. Her voice, when it came, was softer — not a challenge now, but an invitation.

Jeeny: “Molly Antopol once said, ‘The idea that we should write towards the unknown aspects of our experience was totally groundbreaking for me. It gave me the license I needed to try to write outside myself. This attitude has deeply informed my approach to fiction, emboldening me to write characters with voices or situations that are vastly different from my own.’”

Jack: “Writing outside yourself... that’s romantic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s terrifying. But necessary.”

Host: Her hand touched the windowpane, tracing a small line through the fog on the glass — as if drawing a bridge between the seen and unseen.

Jeeny: “Writers always think authenticity means autobiography. But authenticity is just empathy in disguise.”

Jack: “Empathy’s easy from a distance.”

Jeeny: “No. Distance is where empathy begins.”

Host: The rain softened, drumming gently, like words being written by the sky itself. Jack watched her, the light from the lamp painting gold around her face — she looked like an idea given human form.

Jack: “You think a person can truly write someone else’s truth?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can listen deeply enough that their truth teaches you something about your own.”

Jack: “So fiction’s a form of listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To write outside yourself isn’t to escape who you are — it’s to expand what you mean.”

Host: He smiled, faintly, the first real one in hours. He picked up the pen, tapped it against the table, and stared at the blank page as if seeing it differently now.

Jack: “You know, I used to think writing was a mirror. Turns out it’s a window.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s both — and sometimes, if you look closely, the glass disappears.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “So write it down before you forget.”

Host: He chuckled, scribbling the words onto the page, the sound of pen scratching against paper filling the quiet like soft music.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we have the right to write about lives we’ve never lived?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But maybe that’s the question that keeps us honest.”

Jack: “Honesty’s overrated in fiction.”

Jeeny: “No. Honesty’s just courage wearing imagination’s clothes.”

Host: Her voice lingered, warm and certain. The rain had stopped completely now; outside, the streetlight gleamed off the wet pavement, mirroring the world upside down.

Jack: “I remember when I was younger, I wrote about a woman who lost her husband. Critics said it was too distant — like I was observing her instead of feeling her. They were right. I didn’t know grief yet.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I know grief too well. But I’m afraid to use it.”

Jeeny: “Then give it away. That’s what fiction’s for — transforming pain into empathy.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked less like a cynic and more like someone remembering how to believe. He flipped the page, wrote, paused, then wrote again, his hand steadying.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll write about someone who isn’t broken.”

Jeeny: “Start with someone who’s trying to heal.”

Jack: “That’s still me.”

Jeeny: “Then give them different eyes.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and deliberate, marking time like chapters passing. The library’s silence was no longer emptiness but presence — filled with the rhythm of creation, of transformation.

Jack: “You think it’s arrogance to believe we can inhabit someone else’s life?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s humility. It’s saying, ‘I don’t know — but I want to understand.’ That’s what makes a writer human.”

Jack: “And what if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve at least stepped outside yourself. That’s farther than most ever go.”

Host: She walked back to the table, sat down opposite him, her hands folded, her gaze steady. He looked up, and their eyes met — two minds crossing a quiet bridge between doubt and discovery.

Jack: “You know... maybe writing outside myself isn’t about abandoning my story. Maybe it’s about seeing how it connects to everyone else’s.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You stop being the author and start being a witness.”

Jack: “A witness to what?”

Jeeny: “To the possibility that we are all fragments of one larger story.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, as if approving. Outside, the city’s noise returned faintly — a car horn, a burst of laughter, a life continuing.

Jack: “So the unknown isn’t something to fear.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s where art lives.”

Jack: “And where truth hides.”

Jeeny: “And where empathy waits to be found.”

Host: The camera of imagination pulled back, revealing the two of them in the vast quiet of the library — two souls sitting at a small table beneath the golden hum of light, surrounded by the stories of everyone who ever tried to understand the world beyond themselves.

On the table, Jack’s pen moved, tracing words that were no longer confined to his reflection but reaching outward — tentative, compassionate, alive.

Jeeny watched, a faint smile on her lips, as though she could already see the unwritten characters gathering in the room — the strangers whose voices he was finally brave enough to hear.

And in that silence — the pure, unbroken silence between thought and creation — something shifted: a man once trapped in himself began, at last, to write toward the unknown.