Yeah, I like to be the maker of the art. And I like and want the

Host: The bar was dim, painted in a haze of amber neon and cigarette smoke, the kind of place where stories didn’t begin so much as drift into existence. The jukebox in the corner hummed a low, nostalgic tune — something half-remembered, something once famous. Empty glasses lined the counter like confessions.

It was late — or early — depending on how honest you wanted to be.

Jack sat slouched at the end of the bar, sleeves rolled up, voice rough with fatigue and whiskey. A notebook lay open in front of him, its pages filled with scratches, lyrics, and ghosts. Jeeny leaned beside him, chin propped on her hand, eyes bright and unblinking — the kind of eyes that see through the noise but still love the song.

The rain tapped the windows softly, like applause that never reached the stage.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes.”

Jack: “Trying to write something that doesn’t sound like something I’ve already written.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you start believing your own legend.”

Jack: (smirking) “Legend? I’m barely a rumor.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you hiding from your own music?”

Jack: “Because I’m tired of everyone pretending they know what it means. I make it — they brand it. I write from hunger — they call it style.”

(He sighs, pushes the notebook aside.)

Jack: “Liz Phair once said, ‘Yeah, I like to be the maker of the art. And I like and want the money. But I don’t really dig being famous.’ She got it.”

Jeeny: “The artist’s curse — wanting to be seen, but not watched.”

Jack: “Exactly. Everyone wants the music. Nobody wants the musician.”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass, pretending not to listen, but the truth was — everyone in that place was always listening. The rain outside grew heavier, turning the windows into moving mirrors.

Jeeny: “You used to love performing.”

Jack: “I used to love creating. Performing’s just the commercial break between what matters.”

Jeeny: “You think fame killed your art?”

Jack: “No. It just started charging rent for it.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I sound awake.”

Jeeny: “And lonely.”

(He looks at her — sharply at first, then softer.)

Jack: “Fame’s the loudest form of isolation, Jeeny. You’re surrounded by people who see everything but you.”

Jeeny: “Then why chase it?”

Jack: “Because I thought being heard meant being understood.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “Turns out the echo just gets bigger.”

Host: The lights flickered, catching the dust in the air — a thousand floating stars suspended in their own orbit. Jeeny’s voice dropped to a near whisper, the way you talk to someone already halfway gone.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? I think you were never chasing fame. You were chasing proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: “That the noise in your head meant something.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you sang it.”

(A long silence. The jukebox clicks, a new song begins — slow guitar, heartbreak in every chord.)

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “No. Just necessary.”

Jack: “There’s nothing noble about wanting money.”

Jeeny: “There’s nothing shameful either. Survival’s an art form too.”

Jack: “Try telling that to a fan who wants your soul for free.”

Host: The rain turned harder, louder, like applause for an unseen performance. Jack lifted his glass, watching the reflection of the bar’s neon sign swim inside it.

Jeeny: “You know, fame’s just a mirror with bad lighting.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It shows everything exaggerated — the flaws, the charm, the hunger. You look too long, you forget what your real face looks like.”

Jack: “And the money?”

Jeeny: “Money’s the applause that doesn’t fade.”

Jack: “You always were poetic.”

Jeeny: “No. Just honest. Art and money — they’re not enemies. They just make terrible roommates.”

Jack: “And fame?”

Jeeny: “Fame’s the landlord. Shows up uninvited, changes the locks, and calls it gratitude.”

(He laughs — dry, broken, but genuine.)

Host: The bar lights dimmed, signaling last call. The bartender turned away; the night turned inward.

Jack: “You think Liz Phair hated fame?”

Jeeny: “No. She just refused to worship it.”

Jack: “There’s a difference?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Hating fame means you care too much about it. Refusing to worship it means you’ve already seen what’s behind the curtain — and you’d rather be the one writing the song than the one being swallowed by it.”

Jack: “You think I could ever go back to that?”

Jeeny: “To writing for yourself?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “You never stopped. You just started mistaking applause for validation.”

Jack: “And the difference?”

Jeeny: “Applause ends. Validation echoes.”

(He goes still — something in her words landing where no lyric ever has.)

Host: The jukebox fell silent, the last note lingering like smoke. The bartender flicked the lights once, but they stayed put — the kind of people who didn’t leave when the music ended.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe fame’s just a misunderstanding.”

Jack: “Between who and who?”

Jeeny: “Between the artist and the audience. One’s searching for connection, the other for escape.”

Jack: “And neither finds what they want.”

Jeeny: “Not really. But if you’re lucky, they meet somewhere in the middle — for three minutes and forty-two seconds. Then it’s gone.”

Jack: “That’s sad.”

Jeeny: “That’s music.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, showing them small against the haze of the bar — two silhouettes framed by neon and rain, the last remnants of night holding on.

Host: Because Liz Phair was right — being the maker of the art is power; being the subject of fame is captivity.
Fame seduces the artist with mirrors and noise, but creation — creation is quiet, pure, human.

Host: Money buys survival.
Art buys freedom.
Fame just rents illusion.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “You always do.”

Jeeny: “You don’t hate fame. You just miss being unknown — when your voice didn’t have an audience, only a purpose.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “So write something no one will ever hear.”

Jack: “What’s the point?”

Jeeny: “So you can remember why you started.”

(He stares at her for a long moment, then picks up the pen. The scratch of ink fills the silence. The rain softens.)

Host: The scene fades — a man writing in the half-light, a woman watching him rediscover the pulse of creation. No stage, no applause, no fame. Just the sound of a pen against paper and the truth returning to its maker.

Because the artist’s greatest rebellion
is not against failure,
but against recognition.

To make — not to be seen.
To earn — not to owe.
To live — not to perform.

And in that small, smoky bar,
Jack found again what fame had taken —
the quiet joy of creating
without the need to be known.