Writing on my own versus co-writing kind of is the exact same

Host: The morning sun seeped through the cracked window of a small Brooklyn apartment. Dust floated in the light like fragments of forgotten thoughts. The room smelled faintly of coffee, ink, and half-burned candles. A typewriter sat on the wooden desk, its keys still warm, surrounded by scattered pages — handwritten scenes, dialogues, and dreams half-formed.

The faint hum of the city below — horns, buses, shouting, laughter — drifted upward like an orchestra of reality beneath a sky of imagination.

Jack sat at the edge of the desk, sleeves rolled up, tapping his pen against the tabletop. Across from him, Jeeny leaned by the window, barefoot, holding a worn notebook to her chest.

Between them, on a coffee-stained scrap of paper, lay Greta Gerwig’s words:
"Writing on my own versus co-writing kind of is the exact same thing because we don't sit in the same room when we write. We're always writing alone anyway."

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? That even when people create something together, they still do it alone.”

Jack: “It’s not strange. It’s logical. Writing is solitary by nature — even if your name’s on a team project, the act itself happens in silence. You can’t share that silence.”

Host: The typewriter made a faint click as the metal cooled. A beam of sunlight crossed Jack’s face, revealing the fatigue of too many nights spent chasing the right sentence.

Jeeny: “But that silence… doesn’t it ache sometimes? You pour yourself into something, hoping someone else will understand — only to realize that even your co-writer is miles away, writing their own version of the same heartbeat.”

Jack: “That’s what makes it pure. You don’t dilute your vision trying to please someone beside you. When you’re alone, you’re accountable only to the page. Co-writing works because people retreat into their own solitude, and the work becomes a bridge between them.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying creation is isolation, and connection is an accident?”

Jack: “No, I’m saying creation requires isolation. Look at Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach. They’ve written together — Barbie, Frances Ha, Mistress America — but they never sit side by side. They’re two worlds that orbit each other, sending fragments of themselves through email and trust. The connection happens after the loneliness.”

Host: Jeeny turned to the window, her reflection merging with the light outside. Her eyes softened — that kind of softness born from recognition.

Jeeny: “I used to think collaboration meant holding hands through every idea. That if I wasn’t sitting beside someone, we weren’t really creating together. But now…”

Jack: “Now you know the truth.”

Jeeny: “The truth is lonelier than I expected.”

Jack: “All truths are. Every great thing ever written — every book, song, script — came from one person alone with a voice inside their head. You can share drafts, edits, feedback, but you can’t share the actual moment of creation. That’s the most private second of a person’s life.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we call it co-writing at all?”

Jack: “Because humans hate the idea of being alone. We pretend to share what we can’t bear to face.”

Host: A quiet laugh escaped her — not mocking, but wounded and knowing. The pen in her hand trembled slightly, leaving a tiny dot of ink on the page.

Jeeny: “You really think collaboration is just an illusion of comfort?”

Jack: “Not an illusion — a structure. It keeps the loneliness from becoming unbearable. When Gerwig says it’s the same whether she writes alone or with someone else, she’s not diminishing partnership — she’s admitting what no one wants to: every writer lives inside their own head, and every head is its own country.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that solitude — that private country — gets richer when you know someone else is writing, somewhere, thinking of the same story?”

Jack: “Maybe. But that’s not connection. That’s coincidence wrapped in hope.”

Host: The sound of distant church bells drifted in, marking eleven. The city began to stir — a baby crying, a door slamming, the day announcing itself like an unwelcome visitor.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so cold. But isn’t art supposed to be about connection? About reaching someone?”

Jack: “It’s about reaching yourself first. Connection is a side effect.”

Jeeny: “I don’t buy that. When you write a line that makes someone cry, that’s not an accident — that’s empathy made visible. Even if you wrote it alone, it’s meant for another human being. That’s the whole point.”

Jack: “Then why does every writer feel empty after finishing something? Why does it never fill the hole it was meant to fill? Because the reader comes later, Jeeny. And they never read it the way you wrote it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful — the gap between intention and interpretation. The silence between one writer’s solitude and another person’s understanding.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed, dimming the room into a kind of gentle twilight. The pages on the desk fluttered in a small gust from the window.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing isolation.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m forgiving it.”

Host: Jack paused, the pen between his fingers still. That single word — forgiving — struck something he’d buried deep under cynicism and craft.

Jack: “Forgiving it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because maybe loneliness isn’t the price of creation — maybe it’s the source of it. Every writer, every artist, begins alone, not because they have to, but because they’re searching for something that doesn’t exist in conversation. They write to find it.”

Jack: “And yet, we call it co-writing.”

Jeeny: “Because we want to believe that even in our solitude, someone else is there — writing their way toward us.”

Host: The rain began — sudden, silver, alive. It struck the window like a rhythm of unfinished thoughts. Jeeny’s hair caught in the light, glowing faintly against the gray.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe solitude isn’t something to escape, but to share in parallel.”

Jeeny: “Like two stars — too far to touch, but still lighting the same sky.”

Host: The rain deepened, its sound wrapping the room like music. Jack looked at her — really looked — as though he was finally seeing not another writer, but another solitude mirroring his own.

Jack: “You ever think that’s what Gerwig and Baumbach really are? Two constellations writing in the same night?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Their connection doesn’t need presence. It’s trust. A belief that someone out there understands the rhythm of your silence.”

Jack: “So even when we write alone, we’re never completely alone?”

Jeeny: “Not if someone’s waiting to read what we wrote.”

Host: A small smile passed between them — quiet, unforced. The typewriter stood still, but the pages no longer looked abandoned. They looked alive, like they were breathing.

The rain slowed, turning into a mist that blurred the skyline beyond the window.

Jeeny: “Maybe writing together doesn’t mean sharing space. Maybe it means sharing the same longing.”

Jack: “A loneliness synchronized.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A loneliness that creates.”

Host: The city outside shimmered with the light of wet streets, every surface reflecting the pale gold of a new morning. Inside, the two writers sat — not side by side, but aligned, each lost in their own thoughts, connected by the quiet certainty that solitude, when shared in spirit, was no longer solitude at all.

Jack reached for his notebook, flipping to a blank page.

Jack: “You write your version.”

Jeeny: “And you’ll write yours.”

Jack: “And maybe… somewhere between the two, the story will find itself.”

Host: The sunlight returned — gentle now, full of forgiveness.

On the desk, two pens began to move. Separate. Silent. Together.

The sound of writing filled the room — the sound of two solitudes in harmony.

The page turned white with possibility. The moment held.

And the world, for a brief, beautiful second, felt less alone.