You went to the show after all, but you can’t remember it, because you were listening to your characters squabbling in your head.
You see ideas for stories and poems lurking everywhere, but only when you have no way to record them, so you try to remember to bring a pen and notebook with you, no matter where you go.
You’re riding the bus and you think up a perfectly formed plot, but once again, you forgot to bring the pen.
You spend all day with conversations between your characters playing out in your head, and you can’t wait to get home and work on your wip.
When you get home, you rush to the computer before you take off your snowy boots, leaving a trail of slush all over the floor, and then your mind goes as blank as a newly opened Word doc.
When you’re doing the housework, you can’t wait to finish so you can write, and when you are writing, you suddenly can’t think of anything you’d rather do than housework.
You burn the food (again) because you thought up a good line while cooking, but when you went to write it down, it turned into a long poem.
What you like most about Twitter is its usefulness for practicing the art of brevity. All the same, it hurts when you have to type ‘2’ when you really mean ‘too’ or ‘to’.
All the keys on your keyboard are black (or grey, or white); the letters wore off long ago.
People think you are odd because you keep pulling out a notepad to scratch down a few thoughts, then putting it away, then pulling it out again.
People think you have a multiple personality disorder, but really you are just voicing the conversation between your characters to see if it sounds natural.
Your neighbours think you are a magician; you are always mumbling incantations. Really you are just trying not to forget that great turn of phrase you thought up before you can get to a scrap of paper.
Your house is littered with such scraps of paper. In fact there are plot notes on your napkins, character outlines on the backs of your grocery lists, and ideas for future stories on your utility bills.
You sit down for a second to make a note about a possible story line, and suddenly, it’s dark outside, the day has gone by, and you’ve written five thousand words. Your stomach grumbles, but the ideas are flowing, so you ignore it (again) and keep writing.
You check your email constantly for news of all those submissions you’ve sent out.
You alternate between “This piece will never get accepted” and “Maybe I’ll win all five of those literary contests I just entered.”
You receive a rejection and half of you sighs and moves on; the other half can’t believe those jerks didn’t recognize the best piece of writing to grace their desks since < insert name of major literary classic here>.
You spend more time editing, revising and rewriting than you did writing the piece in the first place.
The first thing you think of in the morning is your wip, and the last thing you think about as you are falling asleep is your wip. Your characters invade your dreams in Technicolor.