When you write your first book aged 25 or so, you have 25 years

Host: The café was closing for the night, but the rain outside refused to. The soft percussion against the windows made the streetlights shimmer like tired stars. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee grounds, paper, and quiet failure — the kind only writers know.

A few chairs had been turned upside down on tables, but two remained upright by the back wall.

Jack sat there, sleeves rolled, an untouched espresso cooling beside a half-open notebook. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged, her hair falling in loose waves over a worn novel she wasn’t reading. Between them lay the exhaustion of creation — that peculiar mixture of ambition and despair that smells faintly of ink and rain.

Jeeny: “Douglas Adams once said, ‘When you write your first book aged 25 or so, you have 25 years of experience, albeit much of it juvenile experience. The second book comes after an extra year sitting in bookshops. Pretty soon, you begin to run on empty.’”

Jack: smirks without humor “Yeah. The romantic tragedy of the creative mind — fresh out of wonder by chapter two.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s been there.”

Jack: leans back, staring at the ceiling “Been there? I bought property there. I even pay rent in disillusionment.”

Jeeny: grins softly “That’s poetic, at least.”

Jack: “No. That’s pathetic. He’s right, you know — the first book’s born out of life. The second one’s born out of the echo.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, casting their shadows in brief flashes — like two ideas struggling to stay real. The rain outside thickened, blurring the city into watercolor.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the first book is discovery, and the second is reflection. You write what you’ve lived once — after that, you have to write what you’ve learned.”

Jack: “You assume we learn.”

Jeeny: “We all do. It’s just that some of us don’t like what we find out.”

Jack: half-smiles “And some of us hide it behind metaphors.”

Jeeny: “Metaphors are honesty in costume.”

Jack: “Yeah? Then what’s writer’s block — honesty stripped naked?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s exhaustion from pretending too long.”

Host: The barista wiped the counter for the tenth time, glancing toward the door with the impatience of someone whose dreams had smaller demands. The clock on the wall ticked softly, reminding them of hours they could never recover.

A single page from Jack’s notebook trembled in the draft from the open window. He caught it, held it, then let it fall again.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I was twenty-five, I thought the problem was time — that I just needed more of it to become great. Now, I realize time doesn’t feed you. It just drains you slowly.”

Jeeny: “Time doesn’t drain you, Jack. Routine does. Familiarity. Comfort. You stop looking at the world with first-time eyes.”

Jack: “First-time eyes?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The ones that see wonder in the ordinary — the ones you had when you were young, before everything became reference material.”

Jack: chuckles darkly “You sound like a fortune cookie written by Rilke.”

Jeeny: smiling “Better that than a resignation letter written by Hemingway.”

Host: A bus roared past outside, shaking the windows, leaving behind a wash of headlights and mist. The café’s clock struck midnight — a hollow sound in a room too full of unspoken thoughts.

Jack looked down at his half-filled notebook again, its words slanting awkwardly, like they were trying too hard to mean something.

Jack: “Maybe Adams was right. Maybe writers just run out of fuel. You can’t live enough lives to keep the words honest.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe honesty isn’t the goal. Maybe empathy is.”

Jack: “Empathy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The courage to feel what you haven’t lived. To imagine truth, not replicate it. That’s what the great ones do — they stop mining their past and start inventing humanity.”

Jack: frowning thoughtfully “Inventing humanity... Sounds like arrogance dressed as art.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s faith. Faith that words can build something real.”

Jack: “Faith is for believers. Writers are just professional doubters with better syntax.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even doubters write because they still hope to be wrong about the world.”

Host: The rain softened now, as if the storm itself were listening. The neon light outside flickered weakly, painting the glass with trembling reflections — blue, red, gold.

Jeeny took the notebook gently, flipping through the pages filled with half-thoughts and fragments.

Jeeny: “Look at this — your handwriting’s changed. It used to lean forward, like it wanted to arrive somewhere. Now it leans back, like it’s afraid of what it might say.”

Jack: grins tiredly “Guess I’m running on empty too.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re just waiting for a refill.”

Jack: “From where? The universe doesn’t deliver inspiration anymore. It’s on backorder.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe stop waiting for it. Go out and make something messy, reckless — something that doesn’t try to be brilliant. You can’t rediscover passion while editing it.”

Jack: “That’s what the young do — write badly without caring.”

Jeeny: leans in, eyes glinting with quiet intensity “Then be young again for a night. Forget craft. Remember hunger.”

Jack: after a pause “You really think it comes back?”

Jeeny: “Not as it was. But as it needs to be.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The street outside was slick with reflections, alive with the faint hum of the late city — cars passing, lights blinking, life resuming.

Jack closed the notebook, his fingers tracing the edge of the worn cover. He looked at Jeeny, her face calm but fierce in its gentleness.

Jack: “Maybe Adams was just tired — not empty. Maybe he mistook restlessness for depletion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe all creators do. When the well feels dry, it’s just the soul asking for silence.”

Jack: “Silence doesn’t write books.”

Jeeny: “No, but it refills the ink.”

Jack: smiles faintly “You always manage to turn despair into poetry.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I just see poetry hiding in your despair.”

Host: The lights dimmed further, and the barista finally spoke, his voice soft but firm: “We’re closing up.”

They both stood. Jack slipped the notebook into his coat pocket. Jeeny put on her scarf, her hair catching the lamplight like quiet fire.

They stepped outside together into the damp, electric silence of the street.

The air smelled of rain and ink and possibility.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, maybe running on empty isn’t the end.”

Jeeny: “No.” She smiled. “It’s the sound of the tank refilling.”

Host: They walked into the night, their footsteps echoing softly against the wet pavement, the city unfolding around them — unfinished, imperfect, alive.

And somewhere between silence and speech, between exhaustion and renewal, the truth of Adams’ words shimmered quietly:

Every creator runs out of stories drawn from their past.
But the brave ones learn to write from the present —
from the pulse of now,
where emptiness isn’t the absence of meaning,
but the fertile pause
before it begins again.