Chuck Wendig Quotes

That what guided me was the Force." "You're lying. The Force is only for the Jedi." "No!" Jumon says, not angry so much as he is incredulous. "They wield it, but the Force is in all living things. It is what gives us our intuition, our drive, it's what connects us to one another. We are all one with the Force.

Mon wants this transition to be as peaceable as possible. That is, of course, a noble goal. And in late nights the chancellor confided in Leia that she is wisely struck by the fear of what happened the first time the parasite of Palpatine squirmed under the skin. How easy it was for him to prey on the anxieties of the galaxy. How simple it was for him to turn system against system by stoking the fires of xenophobia, anger, selfishness. (And here Luke's voice echoes in her mind: The ways and tools of the dark side, Leia.) How do you form an Empire? By stealing a Republic. And how do you steal a Republic? By convincing its people that they cannot govern themselves - that freedom is their enemy and that fear is their ally. Palpatine

Always quick with the wit. It's your defense, isn't it? Little girl doesn't want the world to know how sad she is, how damaged. Your words, your attitude, all a big misdirection. A magician's trick.

Walls tagged with graffiti (one such piece of tagging: a stencil of a familiar Sith Lord's helmet with the phrase beneath it reading VADER LIVES).

The writer is editor, marketer, blogger, reader, thinker, designer, publisher, public speaker, budget-maker, contract reader, trouble-shooter, coffee-hound, liver-pickler, shame-farmer, god, devil, gibbering protozoa.

The Empire needed no new weapons. It built the greatest weapon in the history of the galaxy. Twice. It did not need new battle stations. It needed new leadership.

What...what are you?" she asked.
"I'm Batman.

It is our job to ruin the perfection of the empty page. It is our job to disrupt the status quo: because that's what storytelling us. Taking a straight line and bending it, breaking it, shaping it into something far stranger and far greater.

The Empire pretends it's about law and order, but at the end of the day, it's about dressing up oppression in the costume of justice. The

Food for the native Ewoks.

That flag's not just the emblem of being a racist asshole, a club to which your daddy probably belongs happily. But it's also the Confederate flag. The one carried by Southerners to say to the Yankees - that's your daddy, a Yankee - 'Don't tread on me or I'll pop a musket ball up your ass.' Northerners driving around with the Dixie flag is like a Jew wearing a 'Go Hitler!' baseball cap." Jonesy's

You're brave and smart and kind and I'd be a fool not to trust you.

And the New Republic or the New-New Republic or the Republic We Got This Week will clamp down hard and then those people with the so-called better way will become the brave rebel alliance and the Republic will become the enemy and the wheel will turn once more.

He's built like a brick shithouse made of a hundred smaller brick shithouses.

Chewbacca is lovely and all, but he's a gargantuan pillar of hair who smells not unlike a moist gundark's undercarriage. And all that nonsensical growling? And the hugging?

And the lone Jedi that exists - the son of Anakin Skywalker - possesses an untouchable soul. At least for now.

The future is suddenly unpinned - evolving, spinning, leaping about like a panicked tree-loormor.

This is a terrible plan," he says to Han Solo - Solo, who crouches down so as not to be seen. Han Solo, the jerk. The very handsome, very charismatic jerk. "And I hate you very much.

The Ravager is not the last weapon. Nor do I even control it. There is ... another." His face twitches. "You don't mean ... " "I do mean. He's not dead." "But you said he was." "I lied." She shrugs. "This was ... all his plan. Wasn't it? I should've seen it. I fell for a trap. We all fell for your trap.

It's probably the only attraction in Shartlesburg, Pennsylvania, a town whose name Miriam finds so funny she, well, nearly sharts every time she hears it.

You look nervous."
"I'm ... a little nervous."
"You'll be fine. You're pretty. You're alien. You'll trend well.

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With the blood of a scoundrel and a princess in his veins, his defiance will shake the stars.

Stop abandoning your children. You wouldn't call yourself a runner if you quit every race halfway through. Finishing is a good start. Stop looking for the escape hatch; pretend your work in progress just doesn't have one. 23.

The future is a door.

You're a raptor who sees all his people as defenseless little flit-wrens - and you'll save them, if only they give up the fanciful notion that they can lead themselves, that they can protect themselves."
"You understand nothing."
"Meanwhile," Sinjir says, really leaning into it now, "your opponent is a woman who wants to give democracy to the entirety of the galaxy. Freedom for all. Oppression for none."
"It's naïve."
"It may be. But at this point, I'm going to side with her precious naïveté over your authoritarian bluster.

The beginning's easy because it's like
BOOM, some shit just happened. The ending's easy because
POW, all the shit that happened just lead to this.

The age of the insect, he thinks. The meek truly shall inherit the earth.

Happiness is active, not passive; it's a decision, not an award someone gives you. Happiness takes adjustment. When something is broken, you adjust that thing with a wrench, a screwdriver, maybe a flamethrower.

Don't judge me, Captain Judgeypants. I go there for the sandwiches.)

Not it. Her. Give the Falcon some respect, kid.

The pilot, Wedge Antilles, once Red Leader and now - well, now something else, a role without a formal title, as yet,

This is Wedge Antilles of the New Republic. I am trapped on the Star Destroyer Vigilance in the space above Akiva, and I am in -

Mon Mothma walks among the wreckage, attendants on each side of her: Hostis Ij to her left, and Auxi Kray Korbin on her right. Each serving the role of angel and demon on her shoulder (though the role is never fixed and one becomes the other depending on the situation). Behind them, four New Republic soldiers walking with blaster rifles at the ready. This

I love you in the future tense: I will love you, tomorrow and the day after and the day after that until there are no more days left for us.

If ever she is to die, it should be out here, in space. Born from stardust, returned to stardust.

( ... ) 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.

This isn't some kind of inspirational story. Some scrappy, ragtag underdog tale, some pugilistic match where we're the goodhearted gladiator who brings down the oppressive regime that put him in the arena. They get to have that narrative. We are the ones who enslaved whole worlds full of alien inhabitants. We are the ones who built something called a Death Star under the leadership of a decrepit old goblin who believed in the 'dark side' of some ancient, insane religion.

You can't be friends with a droid.

Somehow, the remaining factions of the Empire are still fueling their war effort even months after the destruction of their second battle station.

We come to the page with too many expectations. Each poor little story is like a trembling donkey upon which we heap tons of weight. We don't just want a good book, we want a bestseller. If it isn't perfect, we hate it. If it isn't 100% right, it's 1000% wrong. Problem: we care too damn much. It's all or nothing with us and that's the kind of dichotomy that shanks our happiness right in the kidneys. So: care less. Ease off the stress stick. Have more fun with what you're doing. When your kids and dogs play in the mud, you can either freak out that they're too dirty, or you can laugh and jump in the mud, too. So, fuck it: jump in the damn mud already.

No, no, I know, it's just - you know, I thought ... " "Because I have Syrian heritage I hate the Jews?" "When you put it like that, I'm pretty sure I'm a dumb-ass.

We laugh so that we don't scream.

Good story thrives on protagonists in pain.

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

The Empire's weapon may be destroyed, but the Empire itself lives on.

The best gift you can give somebody is a surprise because they never forget.

I am going to do what every wife must do now and again," she says. "I am going to go rescue my husband.

People believe any horseshit shoved in their ears long as you say 'terrorist.

We think the future is robots and hovercars and maybe it's really here.

Palpatine felt that the universe beyond the edges of our maps was where his power came from. Over the many years he, with our aid, sent men and women beyond known space. They built labs and communication stations on distant moons, asteroids, out there in the wilds. We must follow them. Retreat from the galaxy. Go out beyond the veil of stars. We must seek the source of the dark side like a man looking for a wellspring of water.

Maybe that's the problem with generations. You start to forget what it was like when you were like them, so they become your enemy and you become theirs and nobody understands each other. Then you die and they become you and finally, finally they understand, but by then it's too late.

I'm a certified bad-ass indestructible bitch. The sun tries to burn me, I'll kick him in his fiery balls. I don't need no stinking suntan lotion.

Princess Leia's baby, he knows, will have a good life. The best life.

Stormtroopers were literally supposed to be within the same range of height and weight in part because of exactly that - he wasn't joking when he said he was too tall to be a stormtrooper.

Every story's trying to say something. It's trying to beam an idea, a message, into the minds of the readers. In this way, every story is an argument. It's the writer making a case.

The Empire is in chaos. As the old order crumbles, the fledgling New Republic seeks a swift end to the galactic conflict. Many Imperial leaders have fled from their posts, hoping to escape justice in the farthest corners of known space.

The droid stands up. Servomotors whir as it regards its repaired arm - an arm that's not so much an arm as it is an astromech leg. It spins the leg around, slow at first, then faster and faster until it's just a blur. "THIS IS NOT MY ARM." "I know, Bones. Sorry." "THIS IS AN ASTROMECH LEG." "No, no, I know." "ASTROMECHS ARE INFERIOR. THEY ARE BEEPING BOOPING TRASH CANS. I AM MADE INFERIOR BY THE INCLUSION OF THIS NON-ARM.

Battle droid? The most incompetent droid soldier in the history of both the Republic and the Empire.

Chewbacca's back home, looking for his family. Luke's searching the galaxy for old Jedi teachings. Han Solo's got nothing to smuggle, nowhere to gamble, no foolish Rebellion to fight for. He's like the Falcon: retired to a hangar somewhere, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

The Empire was not known for its roomy architecture. It was fond of austere pragmatism (that term, austere pragmatism, or sometimes pragmatic austerity, found its way atop many Imperial brochures and propaganda tracts), and so kept its hallways low and narrow.

The boy is young, only twelve standard years, not old enough to fight. Not yet. He looks to his father with pleading eyes. Over the din he yells: "But the battle station was destroyed, Dad! The battle is over!" They just watched it only an hour before. The supposed end of the Empire. The start of something better. The confusion in the boy's shining eyes is clear: He doesn't understand what's happening. But Rorak does. He's heard tales of the Clone Wars - tales spoken by his own father. He knows how war goes. It's not many wars, but just one, drawn out again and again, cut up into slices so it seems more manageable.

Coffee Fuck you, coffee IS TOO a virtue. Do not deny me this. Do not dare!

Creativity needs time. We're all dying. Fuck stagnation. High-five creation.

The SUV carves its way through dark pine forests. Morning sun passes through the pleached trees, dappling the windows of the vehicle.

She treats herself as if she is a divine worm born of sand and stone.

Buying gifts for a kid. Can we get him a cute little cape and a mustache so he looks like old Uncle Lando?" Lobot

War is not a state of being. It is meant to be a temporary chaos between periods of peace. Some want it to be a course of things: a default fact of existence. But I will not let that be so.

Question marks are shaped like hooks for a reason: they will hook the reader and drag them deeper into the story

Bones!" Temmin says, throwing his arms around the droid. "I PERFORMED VIOLENCE," the droid warbles. Jas wonders if that's pride she hears in the thing's discordant voice. "ROGER-ROGER.

Sometimes it's just a zen thing and it means shutting the noise out and forming a plan and realizing that as long as it's not going to kill you then you just need to breathe and move past it,

Stories are like wine; they need time. So take the time. This isn't a hot dog eating contest. You're not being judged on how much you write but rather, how well you do it. Sure, there's a balance - you have to be generative, have to be swimming forward lest you sink like a stone and find remora fish mating inside your rectum. But generation and creativity should not come at the cost of quality. Give your stories and your career the time and patience it needs.

The Force, the Force, the Force! Everything the Force.

Earth is home to more than twelve thousand species of ants. If you weighed all the ants and all the humans, the ants would weigh more.

That is war. It is the placement of ships. It is the advantages and disadvantages of those placements. It's about how you move, how you fire, what weapons you bring. Every piece fits into the larger whole: ammunition in a blaster, blaster in a pilot's hand, pilot inside a starfighter or frigate. Everything is a resource. How do you expend them? In what direction? At a distance, war is a game, however deadly - usher this ship there, that ship here, converge, fire, dominate, defend. But

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.

Mood is painted in the margins: you create the image by negative space, dancing around it without ever saying it. 9.

The ending lights up like Baghdad during the war and your jaw drops and the curtains close and you feel a part of something much bigger and much weirder than yourself -- the mighty power of storytelling, a power embodied by the conclusion of narrative. The ending to any story is a potent moment, a super-charged dose of a story's capability to make you feel something and to leave you reeling, wondering, feeling.

Writers and actors have some creative ground in common, and so when you're writing a scene and hoping to convey a mood it's not the worst idea to try to put that mood into your headspace -- feel it, if only a little. I'm not saying you have to kill a kitten or punch your mother to feel something -- I just mean, stir up the memory of certain emotions if not the emotion itself. Same way an actor might think about a sad moment to conjure tears on-camera. 23.

Fetches cups of caf.

Some of life's best moments are during a good bowel movement, and to have that robbed from you, I can't even imagine.

Rejection has value. It teaches us when our work or our skillset is not good enough and must be made better. This is a powerful revelation, like the burning UFO wheel seen by the prophet Ezekiel, or like the McRib sandwich shaped like the Virgin Mary seen by the prophet Steve Jenkins. Rejection refines us. Those who fall prey to its enervating soul-sucking tentacles are doomed. Those who persist past it are survivors. Best ask yourself the question: what kind of writer are you? The kind who survives? Or the kind who gets asphyxiated by the tentacles of woe?

No, I just mean ... I'm not into ... this."
"This?" Her scowl deepens and her teeth bare. "Aliens?"
"Women."
"Oh. Oh."
"Yes, oh."
"Oh.

Fine. Whatever. She's so unpleasant. Beautiful, sure, but it's like putting a dress on a badger. Pretty dress. Nice face. Still a badger.

Hell, nobody's okay. Maybe we never were, and we damn sure aren't now. But we're here. Until we're not. And that's all I find it fair to ask for.

Democracy is not in need of defense. People are.

What's come before will come back around again. Republic was the way of the world before, and it'll be the way again. And for a time everyone will cheer them on, and everything will be cozy-dosie, but there will come a time when things go sour and someone decides they got a better way of doing things.

A chill crawls up Miriam's spine. A parade of baby spiders.

He was a nice guy, Jimmy, but rich or not he was dumb as a bag of retards, and smoking all that weed didn't help.

A storyteller makes us feel something. Makes us give a shit when we have no good reason to do so. Fun is not the last stop on the story train. The storyteller is master manipulator. The storyteller is cackling puppetmaster.

No Tie Fighters. No blasts across the bow of his X-Wing. No X-Wing, in fact, and though he loves flying one, it's nice to be out. No Death Star
and here, Wedge shudders, because he helped take down two of those things. Some days that fills him with pride. Other days it's something else, something worse. Like he's drawn back to it. The fight still going on around him. But that isn't today.
Today it's quiet.
Wedge like's the quiet.

Failure is an instruction manual written in scar tissue.

Life is equal parts strange and beautiful and horrible, and we're tossed into it without a map or an instruction guide. Poems and stories have a way of helping us make sense of things.

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.

In them and between them flourished the heat of life, the madness of love, and the sudden absolute certainty of the end of all that they knew.

The tyrant Palpatine is dead. But the fight isn't over. The war goes on even as the Empire's power diminishes. But we are here for you. Know that wherever you are, no matter how far out into the Outer Rim you dwell, the New Republic is coming to help. Already we've captured dozens of Imperial capital ships and Destroyers -

Dengar guffaws. "You little scrap-muncher. I was putting away bounties while you were still in your space diapers." "What's it say about you that you're still in your space diapers?

Conflict is the food that feeds the reader. It's a spicy hell-broth that nourishes.

Story should be a descent
the feeling that there is an intense gravity to the narrative that draws you down, down, down.

People like the illusion of choice. Gives them comfort in these strange times.

The audience wants a safety blanket. It's the storyteller's job to take that safety blanket and choke them with it until they experience a profound narrative orgasm.