Chuck Wendig is a novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. This is his blog. He talks a lot about writing. And food. And pop culture. And his kid. He uses lots of naughty language. NSFW. Probably NSFL. Be advised.

I will not be watching the debate tonight. I mean, really, what’s the point? I’m already an informed citizen. I know the candidates well. I know one is a highly-qualified, globally well-respected figure, and I know the other is a greasy orange rectal discharge that came to life when struck by lightning one Halloween night. One is complicated and flawed; the other is a demonic carnival barker. One is a politician. The other, a plague unto man. The debate’s gonna stress me out. Here’s how it’ll play out: I’ll put... Read The Rest →

AUTUMN HAS ARRIVED. It is 42 degrees out — the temperature of life, the universe, and everything. Normally, I hate when it gets cold, but fuck it — the summer overstayed its welcome. So, here we are. And today’s macro is a dead leaf with with droplets on it. Here’s a couple things – Tomorrow, I’m with the incomparable and unparalleled FRAN WILDE at the Rittenhouse Barnes & Noble in Philadelphia starting at 7PM to host the launch of her newest, Cloudbound. Next week, I’m at NYCC, and I’ve got... Read The Rest →

The Pelee Island Writer’s Retreat has four more days left on the clock. You can, right now, go there and sign up for a week-long writing retreat on the island with either Margaret Atwood or myself as your instructor. Margaret asked me to be a part of it, and in my experience, when she asks you something like that, you say yes. She could pull up in a wizard van full of mysterious birds and, you know, c’mon. You say yes to that adventure. You just do. So, I said yes.... Read The Rest →

First came the article about the writer who wrote a novel and then went broke. Then came the response at The Billfold, which said blah-blah something-something about how you can’t really make a living working as a writer because writer isn’t a job. ‘…but come the fuck on. Kafka, Dickens, Nabokov — they all had day jobs. Novelists have day jobs! Roxane Gay, who is busy and accomplished enough to be several people, still has a day job. Writers have day jobs because being a writer isn’t a job. Writing is a thing you... Read The Rest →

It’s a little… it’s a little fucked up out there. Right now, outside my window, it’s calm. It’s sunshine and trees. It’s the last crickets of the season. It’s squirrels, and okay, the squirrels are not calm because the squirrels are losing their fucking squirrel minds, going gonzo over every acorn and hickory nut that falls from the trees, but even still, it lends itself to an overall picture of normalcy. Looking outside, I wouldn’t know that everything is wrong, and people are on fire. Or maybe it’s that people are... Read The Rest →

That book you’re writing is mewling again in the dark. It’s a half-formed thing — all unspooled sinew and vein, its mushy head rising up out of the mess of its incomplete body, groaning and gabbling about this life of misery it leads. Its life is shit because you haven’t finished it. It’s flumping along on stump legs, pawing its way through your hard drive, bleating for attention. It needs words. It needs plots. It needs resolution. YOU MONSTER. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE. It’s okay. I’m here. I can help... Read The Rest →