Writing only leads to more writing.

Host: The morning was pale and wet, a light mist clinging to the cobblestones of an old Parisian street. The café was nearly empty, save for the quiet scratch of a pen, the soft clink of cups, and the smell of ink and espresso mixing with rain.

A typewriter sat in front of Jack, its keys smudged from years of use. Paper lay scattered across the table like fallen leaves, each page bearing sentences that began bravely but ended abruptly — as if the thoughts themselves had lost faith halfway through.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, watching him with that quiet, knowing patience she always carried — the kind of stillness that could make a man question whether he was being seen or understood.

On the table between them lay a small book, its cover cracked, its title written in elegant script: Sidonie Gabrielle Colette.

And beneath that, in faded ink: “Writing only leads to more writing.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been at it since dawn.”

Jack: “That’s how it starts. One sentence, one idea, one lie you tell yourself — that you’re almost done. Then you look up and it’s noon, and all you’ve done is rewrite what you already hated.”

Host: His hands were stained faintly with ink, his eyes shadowed from too many nights without sleep.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Colette meant. That writing isn’t about finishing. It’s about discovering how much more you have to say.”

Jack: “Or how much less you actually know.”

Jeeny: “You sound tired.”

Jack: “Because writing is exhausting, Jeeny. It’s like bleeding in slow motion. Every word feels like it should mean something, but by the time it’s on paper, it’s just noise — a copy of a copy of a thought that was once alive.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep doing it.”

Jack: “Because I don’t know how to stop.”

Host: The rain tapped gently on the window, a rhythm that matched the clicks of the typewriter. Jack looked out, his reflection caught in the glass — a man who had given everything to the page, and still it wasn’t enough.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Writing isn’t supposed to end. It’s a kind of hunger — once you start, you keep feeding it.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. It’s not hunger, it’s addiction. Writing doesn’t free you; it chains you to your own mind.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only freedom we get — to speak without being interrupted, to shape what we can’t control.”

Jack: “Freedom?” He laughed, quietly, without joy. “You call it freedom to be trapped in your own words?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because some traps we choose. You write because you need to. Because if you didn’t, the silence would kill you faster.”

Host: She sipped her coffee, her fingers trembling just enough to betray the emotion she was holding back. Jack’s eyes softened, just for a moment.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Writing is the closest thing to prayer I’ve ever known.”

Jack: “Then I’ve been praying to the wrong god.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve just been asking the wrong questions.”

Host: Outside, a bicycle bell chimed, and the rain began to ease. The faint smell of wet earth drifted into the café, mixing with the bitterness of coffee and the faint metallic scent of ink.

Jack: “You know, when I was twenty, I thought I’d write one book — one great, clean book that would say everything I needed to say. But the more I wrote, the less I understood. Every page just opened another door.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Colette was trying to say — that writing doesn’t close anything. It just deepens the maze.”

Jack: “So what’s the point, then? Why keep digging if there’s no bottom?”

Jeeny: “Because digging is the point.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes were fierce. She leaned closer, her tone dropping into something almost sacred.

Jeeny: “Writing isn’t about finding an answer, Jack. It’s about staying with the questions long enough to see who you become while asking them.”

Jack: “That sounds like something a poet would say to make despair sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Or something a writer would say after realizing despair is part of the craft.”

Host: The light in the café shifted as a cloud moved, letting a thin beam of sunlight spill across the table. It caught the rim of Jack’s coffee cup, the edge of the typewriter, and the spine of Colette’s book — all glowing for a brief moment, like objects caught between memory and meaning.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people write at all? I mean, beyond ego. Beyond the need to be read.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re afraid of being forgotten.”

Jack: “So writing is just vanity dressed up as art?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the fear of silence dressed up as purpose.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, the kind of sigh that comes not from frustration, but from the weight of recognition.

Jack: “You know, I think about Colette — how she wrote about love, about aging, about desire — and how she never seemed to stop. It’s like she knew she could never reach the end of herself.”

Jeeny: “Because there is no end of ourselves. Writing is just how we measure the distance between who we are and who we might be.”

Jack: “And what happens when the distance never closes?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep writing.”

Host: A brief silence fell, deep enough to hear the drip of rain from the awning outside. Jack typed a single line, then paused. He read it aloud quietly, his voice soft but steady.

Jack: “‘Writing only leads to more writing.’ You know what that means to me?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That it never ends. That no sentence is final. You spend your life trying to write the truth, but the truth keeps changing faster than the ink can dry.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s worth it.”

Jack: “You think endlessness is worth it?”

Jeeny: “If it means we keep trying, yes.”

Host: She smiled, and for the first time that morning, Jack smiled too — not in triumph, but in surrender. The kind of smile that comes when you realize the struggle itself is the only constant thing that feels alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe writing isn’t a profession or a purpose. Maybe it’s a condition — the kind you never recover from.”

Jack: “Like love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t finish it. You just keep living in it.”

Host: Outside, the sky began to clear, a faint blue emerging between clouds. Jack pulled another sheet of paper into the typewriter. The keys clacked, hesitant at first, then steady — the sound of persistence, of surrender, of creation all at once.

Jeeny watched, silent, as though witnessing a man in prayer.

Jack: “You were right. It’s not about finishing.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about not being able to stop.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly. The barista wiped the last table, the rain finally ceased, and the world outside began again.

Inside, Jack kept writing, and Jeeny kept watching, her eyes full of quiet faith.

And on the paper, the words formed, one after another — not perfect, not final — but alive.

Because in the end, as Colette said, writing only leads to more writing.

And that, perhaps, is the only kind of eternity we ever get.