Too Late My Ass: Why I Started Writing Again at 60 and Why You Probably Should Too

Starting Over Isn’t a Setback, It’s a Goddamn Rebellion

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They say youth is wasted on the young. I say opportunity is wasted on the ones too scared to use it. And yeah, I’m talking about me. I had all the fire back then, all the instincts, all the trauma to pull from. But no clue how to use it. I dabbled in writing like a drunk uncle at a wedding tries dancing. Awkward. Sporadic. Kind of hopeful. Mostly just a mess.

I wrote some weird stories in the Navy. Scratched thoughts into notepads between shifts, between ports, between breakdowns. But then I buried it. Life got in the way. Or maybe I let it. Mortgage. Kids. Jobs that drained me faster than a Vegas slot. I blinked, and I was 60. Sitting in a quiet house. No more screaming kids, no more long commutes, no more pretending I gave a damn about the latest corporate training video on how to “engage synergistically.”

But the stories? They were still there. Still whispering. Still pissed.

So I wrote again. At 60. Yeah, I’m the old guy at the keyboard now, grinding out stories like they owe me money. I’m not slick. I’m not trendy. I don’t write like I’m trying to win the Pulitzer for emotional manipulation. I write like someone who’s seen things. Who feels things. Who survived the bullshit and still has enough gas left in the tank to say, "Let me tell you something you won’t hear anywhere else."

And yet... sometimes I still ask myself: “Am I too late?”

Because the world’s full of these bright-eyed, algorithm-chasing twenty-somethings with influencer hair and MFA degrees who post TikToks about how to plot your novel using emojis and a smoothie bowl. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to remember which notebook I wrote that line in that punched me in the gut last night before my back gave out and I fell asleep in the recliner.

It’s easy to feel like you missed the bus. That you blew your shot. That you should’ve started younger, built the audience, mastered the hustle, sold your soul for a brand deal or a movie option or whatever the hell it is people chase now. But here’s the truth: That’s all noise. That’s all distraction.

Real writing doesn’t give a damn how old you are.

Writing doesn’t care if you’ve got a few miles on you. In fact, it needs you to. The best stuff comes from people who’ve actually lived. Who’ve failed. Who’ve stood in hospital rooms and courtrooms and warzones and grocery store lines wondering if they’ve still got enough credit to buy milk.

If you’re over 50 and you’re wondering if it’s too late to write your truth, here’s my answer: too late for what? For who? Some imaginary gatekeeper wearing skinny jeans and sipping cold brew behind a TikTok ring light? Screw them. You're not writing for that crowd. You're writing for the guy sitting in his garage smoking a cigarette he told his wife he quit, wondering why the hell he still feels so lost at 63. You're writing for the woman who just buried her husband and found an old love letter he never sent. You're writing for you. And that’s all the reason you need.

Now let’s talk about success. Because that word gets thrown around like a damn beach ball at a corporate retreat. Everyone’s got a different definition. Bestseller. Viral post. Book deal. Film option. Oprah interview. Social media blue check.

Here’s mine: Success is telling your truth and having one person say, “Goddamn, I felt that.”

That’s it. That’s the gold. That’s the juice.

If you’re showing up thinking you’re going to be the next Stephen King at 65, maybe take a lap. But if you’re showing up to finally stop swallowing your story and letting it rot your insides, then welcome to the party. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Let me tell you something no influencer’s going to say: Writing doesn’t fix you. It exposes you. Every page is a confession. Every paragraph a mirror. You don’t get to pretend. You don’t get to skip the work. You have to sit with the hard stuff. The trauma. The shame. The weirdness. The stuff you thought you could forget if you just kept mowing the lawn and keeping the receipts filed.

And if you’re doing it right? It hurts. But it’s honest.

And if you’ve made it to 60, or 70, or 80, and you’re still breathing? You’ve got something to say. You’ve got the scars. You’ve got the failures. You’ve got the silence that followed all those years you didn’t write. And now? You’ve got a keyboard. Or a pen. Or a voice recorder. Whatever works.

Now’s when the real work starts.

I’m tired of this idea that writing is for the young. That if you haven’t “made it” by 35 you’re irrelevant. That if you’re not plugged into the digital dopamine matrix 24/7, you might as well retire your brain and go yell at squirrels in the park.

Screw that.

Writing at 60 is freedom. No more begging for permission. No more chasing trends. No more crafting a “platform” like some soulless brand. You’ve got nothing left to prove to anyone but yourself. You’ve got no one left to impress, and that’s when the good stuff comes.

The weird stuff. The painful stuff. The funny, petty, horny, heartbreaking stuff. The stuff you were too afraid to say out loud when you had a mortgage and a boss and a PTA meeting to attend. You can finally say it now. Say it loud. Say it real.

And yeah, you might be all over the place. One day writing about growing up poor in a house that smelled like mildew and resentment. The next day scribbling some fever dream horror story about a rabbit suit in a barn. Then a day later, writing about politics, or travel, or cancer, or God, or your dog dying. That’s not scattered. That’s life. That’s being human.

The only people who “stay on brand” are products. You’re not a product. You’re a survivor. A truth teller. A weaver of moments and memories and monsters and maybe’s.

You want to know what’s too late?

Too late is dying with all the stories still inside you.

Too late is letting some internalized shame convince you that you don’t matter because the world tells you youth equals value.

Too late is swallowing your truth so long it turns into acid.

You started writing again at 60? Good. Some people never start at all. Some people spend their whole lives afraid to say what they really mean. And the world loses out on that voice. That specific combination of pain and perspective and piss and vinegar that only you can deliver.

So if you’re out there, older than the so-called “marketable demographic,” and you’ve got a story to tell? Tell it. Even if your hands shake. Even if you think it’s too weird or too small or too late.

Write like your life depends on it. Because some days, it does.

And don’t ask for permission. Don’t wait to be chosen. You’re already chosen by the very fact you’re still here. Still burning. Still curious. Still aching to connect.

Look, maybe you’ll never get the book deal. Maybe you’ll never go viral. Maybe you’ll never be interviewed on Fresh Air or get stopped in a bookstore by some literary agent clutching a publishing contract like a golden ticket. So what?

You write anyway.

Because the stories matter.

Because your voice matters.

Because we don’t need more noise. We need more truth. The messy, ugly, beautiful, real truth that only comes from someone who’s been through the grinder and lived to write about it.

So is it worth it?

Hell yes, it’s worth it.

If one sentence you write keeps someone from giving up, it’s worth it.

If one story you tell makes someone laugh on a day they were going to cry, it’s worth it.

If one reader—just one—feels less alone because of something you wrote in your garage at 2 a.m. with a cup of gas station coffee and an aching back, it’s worth it.

Don’t ask if you’re too late. Ask what happens if you don’t show up at all.

Because here’s what I know:

The world doesn’t need more polished influencers or branded content creators trying to optimize their SEO.

The world needs you.

Right now. Right as you are.

So sharpen the pencil. Fire up the laptop. Crack your knuckles and crack your soul wide open.

And write like you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Because the truth is, you’ve finally got something to say.