Quotes from Chuck Wendig

One time, a roadrunner watched her take a shit, her squatting form framed by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Viruses wanted to live long enough to multiply and share themselves with the world.)

Oh no, the untamed wilds of third-world-country Canada. Who knows, maybe these pills are just beaver pelts and maple syrup.

He will literally kick my butt so hard I'll be tasting my own asshole for weeks.

exposure is not a measurable resource. If someone asks you to write for exposure, ask them how much exposure. Like, have them measure it. Will it be ten picameters of exposure? I usually ask at least seven nanoliters' worth. If they can prove it, fuck yeah, great. But exposure is a hard thing to prove. Let me utter my refrain yet again: Writers, like hikers, can die from exposure.

she's paranoid about having 'strange teenagers' around Cousin Reg." He lowered his voice. "Especially white kids. You white boys are all school shooters and shit.

Learn from your existence and borrow things from your day to day. Have adventures. Take risks. Put yourself into your fiction. Because life offers a kind of writing advice you just can't read about -- it's something only you can experience.

That fucking asshole has figured out something we haven't. Two words: white victimhood. That's it. He can tap into that like he's a, a, a, I dunno, but that's what it is. That's the gas he's putting in his car to make it go, and he's going to beat us in the primary because of it. He's got no shame, and that's how he wins.

Together, they placed Trigger in a case all its own, clearing out the gold records that hung there. ("Gold records are bullshit," Pete said, throwing them behind them in a pile. They clattered as they fell—not the sound of metal against metal, but the sound of garbage against garbage. "Disposable. Not even real gold. Just some cheap shit vinyl they spray-paint.")

I would straight up fuck a snowman right now

Soon the smoke will drift over the river, and with it, the shepherds' first exposure to that smell: a smell like sick pork cooked slow, a smell that some would describe as having a taste, too, one that lingered in the back of the nose, at the base of the tongue, a taste not unlike licking a very old library book.

The desire for perfection is like a pit of wet coal silt: it will grab your boots like iron hands and never let you go. 13.

That's like, the perfect hotel for me. A hotel with a connected bookstore. It's almost like Heaven.

Then my answer is Double-No with a side order of Nope-Nuh-Uh and a couple sauce packets of Extra-Zesty Fuck-No Dressing.

Pete Corley stood up—which was like watching a closet full of broomsticks animating all at once under a sorcerer's spell.

Ramping a jacked-up hell-quad over a dirge-singing pack of goblins with a burned-to-death stuntman at the wheel. I'm

You're not tasked with desalinating an ocean or training a komodo dragon to cure ebola. I'm saying, sludge yourself into the ass receptacle and peck keyboard keys like a hungry chicken until it makes words.

It starts with my mother….Boys get fucked up by their fathers, right? That's why so many tales are really Daddy Issue stories at their core, because men run the world, and men get to tell their stories first. If women told most of the stories, though, then all the best stories would be about Mommy Problems.

I know art when I see it, but I don't make it. Some people are makers, others are vampires—that's me. We grow fat on your ideas and imagination. I'm just a beautiful tapeworm, darling…

You're not tasked with desalinating an ocean or training a komodo dragon to cure ebola. I'm saying, sludge yourself into the ass receptacle and peck keyboard keys like a hungry chicken until it makes words. Or pick up one of the tools used by our distant ancestors -- it is a tube filled with the liquid black souls of all the animals we've made extinct -- and use this pen as a scribe would to etch scribbly heretical word-shapes onto dead tree pulp.

She didn't believe that. Didn't agree with it. But intrusive thoughts were trespassers. You didn't invite them in. But they broke in, anyway, whether they were true or false.

Hollis Copper knows that everyone has a story and if you want to speak to someone, you better find a way to speak to his or her story.

It disturbed him to know that the machine was listening all the time, a mechanical voyeur—then again, that was the aching paranoia of modern life, was it not? Your phone, listening. Your TV, listening. People put devices in their houses that were always and forever listening. Sometimes, even watching.

Sensible. I'd have done the same damn thing—er, were I not a bleeding-heart liberal. Not that I have a problem with commonsense gun ownership, friend, not at all! I just don't think I could do it. Point it. Pull the trigger. Turns my blood to water, the thought of it. I