When I turned 35, I thought, 'Mozart was dead at 36, so I set the

Host: The library was empty, save for the soft hum of lights and the scent of paper, dust, and rain filtering in through a cracked window. Rows upon rows of books stood like silent witnesses, their spines glimmering faintly under the lamplight. It was late — the kind of late where time feels thicker, where thoughts begin to speak louder than voices.

Host: Jeeny sat at a wooden table, her notebook open, a pen resting loosely in her hand. She looked tired, but there was a quiet glow in her eyes — the kind that only comes from fascination. Jack leaned against a nearby bookshelf, his jacket draped over one shoulder, a coffee cup in his hand, his grey eyes fixed on her like he was watching someone chase a mirage.

Host: From the laptop on the table, the voice of Diana Gabaldon echoed — recorded from an interview, calm yet alive with humor:
“When I turned 35, I thought, ‘Mozart was dead at 36, so I set the bar: I’m going to start writing a book on my next birthday.’ I thought historical fiction would be easiest because I was a university professor and know my way around a library, and it seemed easier to look things up than make them up.”

Host: The audio clicked off, leaving the room in a reverent hush.

Jack: (grinning) “So she started because of Mozart. Not a bad motivation — fear of being outlived by a genius.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No. She started because she realized time isn’t a promise — it’s a deadline.”

Jack: “You sound like her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. I understand that kind of panic — the moment when you look at your life and think, ‘What if I’ve been preparing for something I’ll never actually begin?’”

Host: The clock on the far wall ticked — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat that had no reason to hurry.

Jack: “But why historical fiction? Why not something easier? Something you could just — I don’t know — make up?”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Because truth is harder to invent. You can’t just pull honesty out of imagination; sometimes you have to dig for it, like she did — through archives, through letters, through the echoes of people who actually lived.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting. You’d rather be a detective than a creator.”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing. The best creators are detectives of the human spirit.”

Host: The lamp flickered, its light spilling over the table, pooling around Jeeny’s notebook. She wrote a few words, then stopped, her pen hovering in hesitation.

Jack: “You’re thinking about writing again, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Every day. And every day I don’t start.”

Jack: “Why not?”

Jeeny: “Because I keep waiting for it to feel like the right time.”

Jack: “That’s your mistake. There’s no right time. Just the time that’s almost gone.”

Host: His words landed like stones on the table between them. She looked up, meeting his eyes, the space between them suddenly alive with something both tender and urgent.

Jeeny: “You think fear is a good motivator?”

Jack: “It’s the only one that works. Look at Gabaldon — she didn’t write because she believed in herself. She wrote because she didn’t want to die with her story unwritten.”

Jeeny: “So, what you’re saying is, mortality makes us honest.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every great project starts with the thought, ‘I’m running out of time.’”

Host: The rain outside thickened, tapping against the windows like a drumbeat of urgency. Somewhere, the city was sleeping, but in that library, time was awake.

Jeeny: “But you know what’s fascinating about her quote?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “She didn’t pick the easy thing. She picked the thing she thought would make her fail slower. That’s such a human instinct — to look for safety even in our risk.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Fail slower?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We all pretend we’re ready to leap, but we choose plans, degrees, research, preparation — all just different names for delay. Historical fiction wasn’t her safe bet; it was her excuse to try.”

Jack: (smiling) “And then she wrote Outlander. Not bad for a ‘safe’ experiment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the irony of it — she tried to control her fear, and ended up creating something that was bigger than her control.”

Host: Jack laughed, a low, rough sound, full of both admiration and envy.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of madness. The kind that starts with logic and ends in art. I’ve lived my life in reverse — all fire, no foundation.”

Jeeny: (teasing) “That’s because you like jumping off cliffs and hoping there’s a net made of charm and caffeine.”

Jack: (grinning) “Hasn’t failed me yet.”

Jeeny: “Not yet. But one day, it will. And when it does, you’ll wish you had a library.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened. The lamp steadied. The room felt suspended — like the world had stopped long enough to listen to them breathe.

Jack: “So, what’s stopping you, Jeeny? From starting your book?”

Jeeny: (after a long silence) “The same thing that stopped her — doubt. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the story starts because of the doubt, not in spite of it.”

Jack: “Then write it. Before the doubt becomes comfortable.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound simple.”

Jack: “It is. All beginnings are ugly — that’s what makes them real.”

Host: The light from the lamp caught the edges of her notebook as she opened it again. Her pen hovered, then touched the page. The sound of ink meeting paper was small, almost imperceptible — but it carried the weight of a promise.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe I’ll start tonight.”

Jack: “Good. Mozart would be proud.”

Jeeny: “Mozart didn’t have a mortgage.”

Jack: (laughing) “No, but he had death chasing him — same energy.”

Host: The two of them laughed, their voices echoing softly against the walls of the library, mingling with the rain and the tick of the clock.

Host: Outside, the storm began to fade, and the streetlights flickered in the puddles like lanterns of resolve.

Host: And as the night wore on, Jeeny kept writing — not to beat Mozart, not to escape failure, but to feel that rare and sacred aliveness that only comes when one finally begins.

Host: Jack watched her in silence, the faintest smile on his face, knowing — as all believers in impossible things do — that beginnings aren’t about certainty.

They’re about the moment when you finally stop waiting,
and decide to turn the page.