The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a

Host: The rain fell in thin silver sheets outside the small writers’ bar, the kind tucked between bookstores and regret. The sign flickered, spelling out “The Draft House” in tired neon, half of it burned out — like a metaphor waiting to be written. Inside, the air smelled of ink, whiskey, and unfinished ambition.

Jack sat hunched over a notebook, the pages stained with coffee rings and doubt. His pen tapped the table like a ticking clock. Across from him, Jeeny, a half-smile on her face, sipped a glass of red wine that looked far too elegant for the room.

Host: The space between them was filled not with silence, but with unspoken paragraphs — the kind writers share when words have betrayed them.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that sentence for ten minutes. You planning to marry it or kill it?”

Jack: “Neither. I’m just deciding whether it deserves to live.”

Jeeny: “You talk about words like they’re livestock.”

Jack: “They are. You raise them, you feed them, and then one day, they stop moving.”

Jeeny: “Morbid.”

Jack: “True.”

Jeeny: “John Steinbeck once said, ‘The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.’”

Jack: “Yeah. And he was one of the lucky ones. He actually crossed the finish line.”

Jeeny: “You mean success?”

Jack: “I mean survival.”

Host: The bartender refilled his glass without asking — the kind of man who’d learned that writers never order drinks; they confess them.

Jeeny: “You really think writing’s that unstable?”

Jack: “More than unstable. It’s madness disguised as craft. You spend years betting on yourself, knowing the odds are 100 to 1 against you.”

Jeeny: “But you still bet.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s the curse. Every new page feels like a race — the heart pounding, the crowd in your head screaming, and you don’t even know if there’s a finish line.”

Jeeny: “So why do it?”

Jack: “Because sometimes, the writing wins.”

Jeeny: “And the rest of the time?”

Jack: “You lose quietly — one sentence at a time.”

Host: Her eyes softened, but she didn’t argue. The rain outside grew heavier, each drop sounding like a typewriter key striking an endless story.

Jeeny: “You know, Steinbeck wasn’t being cynical. He was being honest. Writing’s not stable because it’s not supposed to be. You’re dealing with emotion, imagination, ego, fear — wild creatures. You can’t corral that.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But you can try to ride it.”

Jeeny: “Until it throws you off.”

Jack: “Exactly. And then you get back on. Because the only thing worse than the fall is the silence afterward.”

Jeeny: “That’s what separates writers from dreamers — pain tolerance.”

Jack: “No. It’s delusion. The belief that the next sentence will save you.”

Host: He took a sip, his expression somewhere between bitterness and reverence — the look of a man both grateful for and exhausted by his obsession.

Jeeny: “You sound like writing’s a disease.”

Jack: “It is. Chronic, incurable, and highly contagious.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still spread it.”

Jack: “Because every once in a while, you get remission — a paragraph that actually means something.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough?”

Jack: “It has to be.”

Host: The bar’s jukebox clicked, starting an old blues tune — slow, smoky, the kind that sounds like late nights and half-kept promises.

Jeeny: “You ever think Steinbeck compared writing to horse racing because both are about control and chaos colliding?”

Jack: “Maybe. Both demand surrender and precision at the same time.”

Jeeny: “And luck.”

Jack: “Luck’s just what the survivors call discipline.”

Jeeny: “You really think discipline can save a writer?”

Jack: “No. But it can delay the collapse.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jack: “It is. You pour your life into pages hoping someone else feels it — and most days, you’re not even sure you do.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the bar’s cracked mirror — for an instant, two reflections stared back at them: one weary, one resolute.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Steinbeck was laughing when he said that.”

Jack: “Laughing?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He knew the absurdity of it. That writers chase the impossible and call it a career.”

Jack: “So the laughter was survival.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t endure chaos without humor.”

Jack: “Tell that to my publisher.”

Jeeny: “No, tell it to yourself. Because the only stability you’ll ever find in this business is the joy of the work itself.”

Jack: “Joy?”

Jeeny: “The brief, impossible joy of saying something true — and knowing it will outlive you.”

Host: The rain softened, as if the storm outside had listened long enough to join their truce.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I envy people with real jobs. Predictable paychecks. Predictable futures.”

Jeeny: “And no stories to tell.”

Jack: “Fair point.”

Jeeny: “Writing’s not a profession, Jack. It’s a calling. That’s why it hurts — because it’s personal.”

Jack: “And unstable.”

Jeeny: “But honest. Tell me another business where failure feels sacred.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if we don’t, who will?”

Host: She raised her glass; he raised his. Their reflections shimmered together in the amber light — two gamblers acknowledging the beauty of the risk.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if Steinbeck regretted it?”

Jack: “The chaos?”

Jeeny: “The profession.”

Jack: “No. I think he accepted that writing wasn’t supposed to be stable. That’s why he did it. To find order in disorder.”

Jeeny: “And in the process, made a stable business unstable for the rest of us.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: They laughed quietly — the kind of laughter that comes not from joy, but recognition.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlamps reflected on the wet pavement, turning puddles into liquid paragraphs of light.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s the secret. Writing’s not a race. It’s a long ride through uncertainty.”

Jack: “And the only bet worth making…”

Jeeny: “…is on yourself.”

Jack: “You think Steinbeck would agree?”

Jeeny: “I think he’d buy us a drink.”

Host: The bartender smiled, as if on cue, pouring another round.

Because as John Steinbeck said,
“The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.”

And in that rain-washed bar, surrounded by ghosts of sentences and half-finished dreams,
Jack and Jeeny realized that maybe instability wasn’t failure — it was faith.

The faith that words, though wild and unpredictable,
can still carry you home.