When I write a book, I write a book for myself; the reaction is

Host:
The moon hung low over the river, its reflection rippling through the water like a restless dream. The city was half-asleep, except for the small, dimly lit café on the corner, where the air smelled of ink, coffee, and unfinished thoughts. Through the wide window, rain traced delicate lines down the glass, as if the sky itself were sketching something it couldn’t quite say.

Inside, Jack sat at a table scattered with papers, cigarette ashes, and the ruins of two empty espresso cups. His grey eyes were distant, fixed on the notebook in front of him, where words were scratched out, rewritten, and scratched out again — the visible scars of an idea refusing to behave.

Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her elbows resting on the table, her hair half-shadowed by the warm lamp. She watched him the way someone watches a clock they’ve wound a thousand times — familiar, patient, but never entirely without wonder.

Jeeny: [softly] “Paulo Coelho once said — ‘When I write a book, I write a book for myself; the reaction is up to the reader. It’s not my business whether people like or dislike it.’”
Jack: [without looking up] “Yeah. Sounds liberating, doesn’t it? Writing without worrying about applause or rejection.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “You say that like you believe him.”
Jack: [grinning, dryly] “I do. I just don’t believe I could ever do it.”
Jeeny: “Because you care what people think?”
Jack: [lighting a cigarette] “Because I pretend not to.”

Host:
The match flared briefly, lighting the hollow beneath his eyes. Smoke curled upward, fragile and defiant, the way thoughts rise when they know they’ll soon disappear.

Jeeny: “That’s the problem with artists today. Everyone’s obsessed with reaction. It’s all feedback loops — likes, reviews, trends. Coelho’s right. Creation should be a conversation with yourself, not the crowd.”
Jack: [taking a slow drag] “And what’s the point of a conversation no one hears?”
Jeeny: “It’s the point of honesty.”
Jack: [raising an eyebrow] “Honesty doesn’t pay the rent.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Neither does pretending.”

Host:
Rain beat harder on the window now, the rhythm syncing with the low hum of streetlights. A car passed outside, splashing through puddles — the city’s way of turning silence into music.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Every artist who says they don’t care what people think is lying — including Coelho. You don’t put words into the world without hoping someone listens.”
Jeeny: “He didn’t say he didn’t care. He said it wasn’t his business. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “Semantics.”
Jeeny: [leaning forward] “No. Boundaries. The artist’s job is creation. The reader’s job is reaction. Confusing the two leads to madness.”
Jack: [smirking] “Or marketing.”
Jeeny: [laughing softly] “That too.”

Host:
The laughter lingered, warm against the sound of rain. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke vanish — like the ghost of a thought unfinished.

Jack: “You ever wonder what kind of person writes only for themselves? It sounds noble, but it’s also… lonely.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what art is — the most honest form of solitude.”
Jack: “So, art as confession?”
Jeeny: “No. Art as self-recognition. The writer writes to meet themselves halfway.”
Jack: [quietly] “And the reader?”
Jeeny: “If they’re lucky, they meet the same reflection from the other side.”

Host:
A waiter passed by, refilling their cups. The steam rose, clouding the air between them — a soft veil of warmth in the otherwise cool night.

Jack: “You talk like the reader doesn’t matter, but they’re half the equation. Without someone to interpret it, what’s the point of writing?”
Jeeny: “You’re thinking of communication. I’m talking about creation. The first breath belongs to the artist; the rest is wind.”
Jack: “You sound like you’re defending selfishness.”
Jeeny: “Maybe I am. The purest art comes from selfishness — not greed, but self-truth.”
Jack: [half-smiling] “And when the truth doesn’t sell?”
Jeeny: “Then you live with integrity instead of royalty checks.”

Host:
The wind rattled the window, scattering a few pages from Jack’s notebook. Jeeny reached across the table, catching one before it hit the floor. She glanced down. It was a paragraph written and crossed out so many times the words were illegible.

Jeeny: [gently] “You keep trying to fix this paragraph, but maybe it doesn’t want to be fixed.”
Jack: [dryly] “Words don’t have feelings, Jeeny.”
Jeeny: [handing it back] “No, but writers do. And sometimes they bleed all over the page until it’s too heavy to lift.”
Jack: [studying her] “You really think writing for yourself is enough?”
Jeeny: [quietly] “It has to be. Otherwise, you’ll spend your life performing instead of expressing.”

Host:
Outside, thunder rolled distantly, the kind that rumbles more in memory than in sound. Jack stared down at his notebook, fingers tapping the pen against its edge — a rhythm of thought, doubt, and defiance.

Jack: “Maybe Coelho could afford to say that. Once you’re famous, indifference becomes philosophy.”
Jeeny: [smiling knowingly] “No, Jack. It’s what made him famous. He wrote for himself long before anyone else read him.”
Jack: [softly] “So the trick is to believe before you’re believed in.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”
Jack: [bitter laugh] “That’s a hell of a trick.”
Jeeny: “It’s not a trick. It’s faith.”

Host:
The café’s clock ticked softly, marking the hour. The rain had eased to a drizzle, the kind that sounds like breathing. Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection merging with the wet city lights.

Jeeny: “You know what writing for yourself really means? It means not needing validation to exist. It means saying something because it’s true, not because it’s liked.”
Jack: “And if no one ever reads it?”
Jeeny: “Then it still did its job — it told the truth to the only person who could really understand it.”
Jack: [quietly] “The writer.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Yes. And maybe one day, the reader who needed to hear it will stumble upon it. That’s the miracle of art — the meeting that was never planned.”

Host:
The rain stopped completely, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and old stories. The streetlights glowed softly, and the city exhaled.

Jack closed his notebook, finally, pressing his palm flat against its cover as though sealing something inside — not finished, but accepted.

Jack: [softly] “So maybe the reader doesn’t define the art — they discover it.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly. The artist releases it. The reader redeems it.”
Jack: [after a pause] “And the critics?”
Jeeny: [grinning] “They keep it alive by misunderstanding it.”

Host:
They both laughed quietly, the sound like a small rebellion against the night’s weight. Jeeny gathered her coat, standing to leave, but lingered a moment, looking at him — at the tired, brilliant chaos that lived behind his eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, the best books aren’t the ones everyone likes. They’re the ones that keep someone awake at 3 a.m., wondering if they’ve just been seen.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “And what if that someone’s just the writer?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Then the book did its job twice.”

Host:
The door closed behind her, leaving Jack alone with his notebook, his coffee gone cold, and the faint echo of her words. The rain-washed street shimmered beyond the window, the city a thousand stories deep, waiting to be told.

Jack reopened the notebook, crossed out one line, then wrote another — slower, surer, quieter.

And as the lamp’s light dimmed, the truth of Paulo Coelho’s words settled into the silence:

that art is not a product of approval,
but an act of intimate defiance —
a whisper from the self to the self,
sent into the world like a message in a bottle,
never knowing where it will land.

For the artist’s only duty is to create,
and the reader’s only gift is to feel —
and between them lies the sacred ocean of interpretation,
where meaning floats free,
indifferent to applause,
eternal as the rain that falls after the words are written.