Writing is communication, and you don't know how you're doing

Host: The afternoon sunlight slanted through the wide windows of a cramped writing studio, scattering dust particles like slow-moving stars in a forgotten universe. The smell of coffee, paper, and old ink drifted in the air. Outside, the distant noise of traffic hummed—a city alive, impatient. Inside, time seemed to slow.

Jack sat at one of the wooden tables, his notebook open, a half-smoked cigarette balanced between his fingers, the ash long and ready to fall. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, the steam rising softly, curling around her face like a ghost of a thought not yet spoken.

Jack: “You ever think about how absurd it is, Jeeny? Writing. We bleed on paper, then wait for strangers to tell us if the color looks right.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. We don’t write to prove we’re right—we write to see if we’re understood.”

Host: The room was quiet except for the rhythmic scratch of pens and the occasional click of keyboards from other writers. The walls were lined with books, their spines faded from too much sun. The ceiling fan turned lazily above, its soft hum marking the tempo of an invisible conversation between creation and judgment.

Jack: “Carol Berg said, ‘Writing is communication, and you don’t know how you’re doing until you put it in front of someone else’s eyes.’ I hate that truth. It means the work isn’t ours once it leaves the page—it’s theirs.”

Jeeny: “It was never just ours, Jack. Words are bridges. You can build them alone, but if no one crosses, what’s the point of the structure?”

Host: Jack looked up sharply, his grey eyes catching the light like chipped steel. He leaned forward, voice low, half a growl, half confession.

Jack: “But bridges can crumble under too much weight. Critics, editors, readers—they take your work apart like it’s machinery. Cold, methodical. You call it communication. I call it dissection.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s dialogue. When they see your flaws, they’re not tearing you down—they’re holding up a mirror. Maybe they’re showing you what you refused to see.”

Host: A slow rain began to fall outside, soft and deliberate. The sound tapped against the window, like an old rhythm only writers would hear. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his hand trembling slightly—anger or doubt, it was hard to tell.

Jack: “You talk like feedback is mercy. But I’ve seen writers crushed by it. Their voices die under the weight of what others think. Hemingway shot himself with all the critics still whispering in his ear.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he changed the world before he fell silent. You can’t blame the mirror for showing the cracks, Jack.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was calm but firm, her eyes burning with conviction. She shifted in her seat, the light catching the subtle sheen of her hair. Jack looked away, out the window, where the rain was painting slow lines of silver on the glass.

Jack: “You’re saying we need the judgment to grow?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying we need the reflection. No art exists in a vacuum. A story unread is a body without breath. We bring it to life when we let others see it, feel it, argue with it.”

Jack: “But then what’s left of the writer’s soul? Once the world cuts it open, rearranges it?”

Jeeny: “What’s left is stronger. Cleaner. Real. You can’t write truth if you’re afraid of being seen.”

Host: The fan above them creaked, as though even it paused to listen. A few other writers glanced up from their pages, sensing the rising tension that hung in the room like static.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, but I’ve seen the other side. Online reviews, workshops that feel like executions, editors who twist your words to fit their taste. That’s not communication, Jeeny—it’s compromise.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Compromise is when you write what they want. Communication is when you risk showing what you really mean and let them answer. Even if the answer hurts.”

Host: The rain quickened, drumming harder now. The window fogged, turning the city beyond into a watercolor of grey and light. Jack ran a hand through his hair, restless, his voice quieter now, less defiant.

Jack: “You ever felt that sting? When someone calls your writing shallow? Or wrong? Or just... not good enough?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But I’ve also felt the grace of being told what I missed—the one word, the one image that could’ve made it true. Critique isn’t a knife unless you turn it on yourself.”

Host: Jeeny took a small sip of her coffee, then set the cup down with a faint clink. Her hand lingered there, trembling just enough to betray the vulnerability beneath her certainty.

Jeeny: “Do you remember your first rejection, Jack?”

Jack: “Of course I do. I still have the letter. Said my story ‘lacked emotional depth.’”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe. Maybe it lacked something else, too—courage.”

Host: Jack’s laugh came out dry, almost bitter, but behind it was a faint trace of surrender. The rain began to soften again, turning into a delicate whisper against the pane.

Jeeny: “See? That’s what Berg meant. You don’t know how you’re doing until someone else looks. It’s not about validation—it’s revelation.”

Jack: “You make failure sound like enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. You can’t learn to write in the dark, Jack. You need light—even if it blinds you for a while.”

Host: The studio grew still again, the energy shifting from defiance to quiet reflection. The dust in the light seemed to settle slower, more deliberate, as if time itself was eavesdropping.

Jack: “You know, there’s another part of Berg’s quote. She said you learn from critiquing others’ work, too. That’s something I’ve never understood. What can I possibly learn from judging someone else’s failures?”

Jeeny: “Everything. You learn how fragile creation is. You learn to see yourself in their struggle. When you critique another writer, you’re not dissecting them—you’re tracing your own heartbeat through their mistakes.”

Host: Jeeny’s words lingered, soft but sure. Jack looked at her, really looked—her brown eyes filled not with victory, but empathy.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we’re all doing then. Not writing stories, but decoding ourselves through each other’s eyes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Writing isn’t about perfection—it’s about participation. We write, they respond, we change, and the cycle keeps us alive.”

Host: A moment of stillness followed. The rain stopped. The sunlight broke through the clouds, catching the small pools on the street, turning them to gold. In the studio, the light fell across their faces, erasing the shadows that had lingered there.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe writing alone is only half the story.”

Jeeny: “And the other half?”

Jack: “The courage to let it be seen.”

Host: They sat in silence, both watching the light shift across the table, across the scattered pages filled with words—some crossed out, some half-formed, all waiting to be read. Outside, the city moved again, alive with voices and stories intersecting like invisible threads.

Host: The camera panned slowly out through the window, capturing the studio bathed in late sunlight, the notebooks open, the pens still, and the faint echo of two hearts finding a shared truth.

Host: For a moment, even the city seemed to hold its breath—as if listening, quietly, to the sound of something being understood.