Looking back, staring forward. Standing on this head-of-the-pin moment between two years — an arbitrary distinction, perhaps, from when one calendar becomes useless and a new one must be hung, but a distinction just the same and a fine enough moment to pause and reflect.
Chuck Under Microscope
It’s the month of December and as a gift I’m going to give you: My boot in your ass and my fist in your trachea. It’s time to wipe the bullshit from our faces and squeeze all our little excuses so hard their heads pop off one by one. We will exterminate our worst writerly habits with a Dalek-like enthusiasm.
Poor, poor Coburn. Once the king of his castle — his castle being New York City — he awakens from slumber to discover that his city and his world have been gobbled up by a zombie apocalypse. Most of the humans are dead. Which means his food source is spoiled.
It’s too early to see how else or how often that glimmer of my father will appear in my son — maybe it’ll come and go and then leave for a time, or maybe it’ll always be there. My son is strong. Independent and stubborn. Like my father and, perhaps to a lesser degree, like me. He’s already good with his hands — my father worked with his hands.
Hungry for another double-barrel buckshot of questionable writing wisdom unloaded into your brain-guts? Ohhh, I have just the thing for you, my little ink-fingered word-cobblers. Available today: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER.
Anyway, here’s a general “What The Shizznut is Wendig Up To?” post. Absorb it into your brain-stream or ignore it at your leisure. Contained within: dubious advice! Book covers! Interviews! Promotions! Incitements! Poop noise! Shall we continue? Let’s! As the Doctor would say: Allonsy!