Second Acts and Middles

Why we should all take a hint from good novels and pay more attention to this often-ignored stage of life.

I promised readers who are interested in second acts and how to navigate middles that I would alternate posts about writing with posts about second acts. So—Second Acts!

I find the concept of a second act fascinating. There are two common associations with second acts (the middle of a play, novel, or movie, and something a person devotes their later life to), but strangely, there’s less written in the literary world about the importance of second acts and middles than I expected (though there’s an abundance in the self-help world). My search for literary quotes on the importance of second acts or middles yielded only this F. Scott Fitzgerald quote: “There are no second acts in American lives”—even though I could have fallen down several rabbit holes related to beginnings and endings. (I’m not sure what the context of his quote was, but on its own, I definitely disagree!)

Why don’t we pay more attention to the idea of second acts and the importance of middles in our lives? I thought about this—when else?—during the middle of a walk with Lucy and Juno.

In classic dramatic structure (with three acts), the second act is where the story unfolds. It's where characters face their greatest challenges and where the tension builds, and without a strong second act, even the most promising storyline can flounder. A boring second act in a novel or movie might cause us to put the novel down or turn off the movie.

In life, an uninteresting or uninspiring middle can lead to deep dissatisfaction, and even an okay middle can be, well, boring. But changing that middle… well, that can lead to an interesting and inspiring second act.

You’ve probably all seen lists that chronicle people famous for their second acts (Julia Child, who became a famous chef in her fifties even though in her thirties she reportedly didn’t know what a shallot was; Vera Wang, who was an ice skater before she entered the fashion industry at forty; Colonel Sanders, who founded KFC in his sixties. Writers like Frank McCourt, who published Angela’s Ashes at sixty-six, and Laura Ingalls Wilder, who published Little House on the Prairie at sixty-five). These individuals had big second acts—second acts that defined their legacies—but a second act doesn’t have to result in success in someone else’s eyes to be a success for you. It might mean a new career, but it might also mean a new relationship (or improving on a current one), a new sport or a new hobby. It can mean anything that allows for a more interesting middle. (As an aside, I think we find ourselves in the middle of things all the time and consequently, a second act can happen in your twenties, fifties, or seventies — almost anytime. A second act doesn’t have to be “later in life,” even if that’s the more common association.)

This begs the next question—and the question that vexes both writers and people just living their lives: how do you change a middle and find a better or different second act?

Second acts don’t appear magically out of thin air. They take work and thought (and sometimes, luck), and finding the right second act requires openness to change, uncertainty, and risk. The second act everyone asks me about—writing instead of practicing law—took years. I didn’t just sit down and magically write a book one day (though I did try and fail that route a number of times). In fact, it was luck that helped me realize there was no such thing (at least not for me) as magically sitting down to write a novel. One Saturday in 2017, I wandered off Boulder’s Pearl Street into a little garden and a free two-hour class called “Your Writing Process.” I left with the realization that not only did I not have a writing process, but I didn’t even understand the literary vocabulary thrown around by the other students. Suddenly the reason I’d never succeeded in writing a novel was clear: I’d never taken a creative writing class, never been a part of a writing community, and never had any structure for writing. I needed to change that. I went home and signed up for one introductory class, then another and another. Over the next few years, I wrote short stories (most of which were abject failures), joined a writing group, attended summer conferences, and eventually enrolled in a year-long novel generator class. I finished the novel I wrote in that class in late 2022, queried for agents and signed with my literary agent in February of 2023. We worked on edits that spring, and she sold it in the summer of 2023 to my publisher, Celadon. That novel, PENITENCE, will be published February 18, 2025—almost eight years after I wandered into that free writing class.

Family, friends, and acquaintances have sometimes told me they aren’t brave enough to have a second act, but I don’t think they’re giving themselves enough credit. The reality is that most people have already had a second act. They switched a college major in their late teens or left a bad relationship in their twenties. They returned to grad school in their thirties or gave up drinking or started running. They trained a puppy for the first time or became a parent and were thrust into the role of parenting. (Importantly, a second act might involve subtle shifts in perspective or priorities rather than dramatic external changes—don’t underestimate the impact of the smaller changes.)

Even with this knowledge, this very human fear of change prevents many of us from seeking a second act even when we’re stuck in a middle we aren’t enjoying. (This is where life diverges from writing: if characters and plots don’t change or evolve in the middle as a novel progresses from beginning to end, that novel won’t be very interesting. A writer can’t, or at least shouldn’t, be afraid of change.) Personally, I was terrified to stop being a lawyer, to leave that identity behind, along with colleagues and clients I truly liked and an actual salary, and start building my writing identity instead. Would I like it? Love it? Be terrible at it? Regret making the change? I didn’t know—that’s the uncertainty and risk I mentioned above—but I didn’t want to wake up when I was eighty and say: “I wish I would have tried.”

The irony of our fear of change is that in life, change is the only constant. The very building blocks of life—energy and matter—are always changing, so resisting change is fighting nature. Second acts require embracing change and uncertainty even if reaching for that second act, whether it’s big or small, feels scary. And the reality is that sometimes change is good and sometimes it’s not. You won’t know until you’ve made the change, of course, and how it turns out is not always under your control. But if you need to control something during the process of change, control your experience of it and control how you react to it. You just might find yourself in a different middle, one that you are enjoying, or even back at an exciting new beginning.

The last thing I’ll touch on is this: if you’re thinking of a second act—in any way, shape or form—don’t fear failure. We all fail at things in life, but failure is important. So important that I’m going to write my next post on it, because I’ve experienced a lot of it, and while painful, those failures were a necessary part of getting to my second act, both in my life and in my writing.

What's your experience with second acts? Have you had one (or several), or are you contemplating one now? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Cheers, Kris

WHAT I’M READING: Just finished and loved The God of the Woods by Liz Moore. Now enjoying The Bee Sting by Paul Murray and The Sequel by

Jean Hanff Korelitz

(I have an Advanced Reading Copy).

WHAT I’M LISTENING TO: Johnny Marr and The 1975.

WHAT I’M WATCHING: I just started Sharp Objects and I’m disturbed by this version of Amy Adams, but it’s been delightfully creepy so far. I also watched a bit of the new Netflix series Kaos with Jeff Goldblum and found it to be a sharply funny modern take on Greek mythology.

WHAT I’VE BEEN DISAPPOINTED BY: My supposed hydro-cooling pillow. It’s just a regular pillow. It doesn’t keep me cooler. I’m not providing a hyperlink.

WHAT I’M EATING: It’s pizza season! Okay, maybe that’s not a thing, but let’s pretend it is. This next pizza will be a mix of prosciutto, arugula, figs and gorgonzola, purely because I found a treasure trove of fresh figs in the supermarket. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up on pepperoni and sausage, though, which may be my all-time favorite even though processed meat causes cancer.