Wayward (Wanderers, #2)

by Chuck Wendig

“When we’re good to each other, the world is good, Marcy. It’s as simple as a sunset. We help them, they help us. If we can’t live like that, then what’s the point of living at all?”

At heart, what we give to the world is our service, and what we give to ourselves is our purpose.

Our service and our purpose must be two circles perfectly overlapping. What we give to the world must be the work that defines us. Meaning we give ourselves to the world to make it better. We don’t just work to work. But we don’t just let our destiny die on the vine.”

“My dear, nothing matters. Literally nothing. It’s all just salt and stardust. The meaning that life has is only the meaning we are fit to give it.” He held her close. “So, let’s give it a little meaning, and solve this riddle. Sometimes doing the thing is about doing the thing and not about the result of having done the thing.

I just couldn’t do it. I felt creatively like I had a broken leg. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even walk. Best I could do was hobble about, manifesting little more than blog posts and weird tweets. I felt feral and sad. We all did, I think. (And we all do still feel that way, I suspect. At least a little. Maybe we always will, from now until the last day.)

I somehow managed to write a book about a post-pandemic world in the middle of an actual fucking pandemic. You are free to take every word you write or read as a victory, too. Why not? Life is short. The world is mad. Relish in the triumphs; make the small ones feel huge, make the huge ones feel legendary.