The Perils of Doing It Again: A Young Writer's Take on Elderly Writer Wisdom
So, there I was, a young writer, freshly armed with optimism and a little too much coffee, listening to an interview with an elderly writer. The kind of writer whose books you have to dust off before opening, because they've been around long enough to gather a respectable amount of literary dust. They asked her, "Would you do anything differently?" and without missing a beat, she said, “No, but I wouldn’t want to do it again!”
And I had to pause, mid-sip, my mind short-circuiting for a moment. “Wait… what?”
It’s the kind of response that, at first, feels like a punch to the gut. You hear it, and you immediately think: That’s the dream, right? To write so much, so well, that you can look back with no regrets, but still sigh in relief that you’re done?
Maybe I'm just naïve, but it sounded to me like the exact opposite of the hopeful “I’ll write my magnum opus and change the world” mentality I had when I first started writing. Here’s an older writer who’s been through the wringer enough times to look back and go, “Yeah, no regrets—but no thank you on the repeat performance, please.”
The Gracious Grind
Let’s be clear—I’m not there yet. I’m still in the stage where every new project feels like a sparkling beacon of possibility. You know, the excitement of thinking, this might just be the one—the one that gets picked up, published, reviewed, and handed out at book clubs. I’m in that sweet, optimistic phase where every draft feels fresh, and every word I write is gold (even if it’s more like lead in practice).
But I’ve listened to enough podcasts, read enough “How to Write” books, and fought enough battles with my characters to know that the grind isn’t glamorous. The grind is the real, messy part of writing: the part where you stare at your screen for hours and wonder if what you’re doing even matters. And then you do it again the next day.
What struck me about this elderly writer’s response wasn’t just her wisdom—it's that she had clearly been through all that grind and come out on the other side. She’d survived it. And not just survived—she had made peace with it, too.
The struggle of writing and revising, of dealing with plot holes, deadlines, and endless edits, finally turned into something like acceptance. It wasn’t about writing some legendary book—it was about the act of writing itself. And then… no thank you on doing it again. Because she’d lived through the unglamorous, tiring, often soul-crushing side of it enough times to know that one round of this was plenty.
No Regrets, But Maybe… No Thanks?
The response itself was almost a punchline to every single overhyped writing success story we’re sold when we first start out. You know the ones—just write your passion, and the rest will follow! Build your platform! Keep pushing! Never stop! All that hustle culture, mixed with a sprinkle of “If you build it, they will come.”
This writer, though, she wasn’t buying into that. She’d written the books, lived the life, and when asked if she’d change anything, her response was no—but also, hell no, not doing it again. That’s a different kind of wisdom. That’s the kind that comes from looking back and realizing, Yes, I did it, and it was worth it—but I’m good now, thanks.
For me, hearing this was like getting a reality check. And that’s exactly what I needed. I get it now. Writing is not always going to be the shiny, inspiring dream I imagined. There will be moments where it feels like everything is falling apart—where the plot doesn’t work, the sentences won’t flow, and maybe you’ll even consider giving up completely. But you don’t. You keep writing. Because, ultimately, that’s what you have to do.
And at the end of it, like the elderly writer said, you may not regret a thing, but you might just look at your manuscript and say, I’m done here.
Inspiration from the End of the Line
So, as much as I’d like to tell myself that I’ll eventually write the Great American Novel and change the world of fiction, I’m slowly starting to understand the beauty in simply finishing. Maybe it’s not about doing it differently—maybe it’s just about getting through it without losing your mind.
And honestly? That’s a lesson I’ll take with me. Maybe the elderly writer’s wisdom isn’t just about not wanting to do it again—it’s about surviving the entire process, then standing on the other side with a wry smile, knowing you’ve done your time. If that’s what comes with age and experience, I’ll take it—just please, don’t ask me to do it again.
The Snark
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