(Inspired by a post on The Writing Corp blog and of course, Mr. Jeff Foxworthy)
If you’ve ever freaked out because your partner loaned your pen to someone and neglected to get it back…
If you own 17 notebooks and still have a house littered with random pieces of paper containing ideas…
If your friends won’t tell you anything anymore for fear it’ll end up in your next novel, screenplay or comedy sketch…
If you’ve heard voices in your head and your first thought was grab something to write with…
If you go on a tropical vacation and only the back of your neck gets sunburned…
If you’ve developed the skill to write coherent notes to yourself without removing your eyes from the person sitting across from you…
If every jacket you own and every room in your house contains a writing pad of one size or another…
If you instinctively know what inks will smear and which pens write upside down…
If you’ve ever found yourself looking forward to a long bus or train ride…
If reaching a crisis is as satisfying as achieving a climax…
(Personally, I’m still working on the writing while looking someone in the eye, otherwise, I’m good.)
createdbyrcw 
One of the games I have to play when I look at my notes is to answer this question: Did I write this while drunk, on the bus, or in the dark?
And if the answer is “yes”? 😉
If it’s illegible, it was one of them. I have to try to remember which. If it was in the dark, it was probably a good idea. If it’s misanthropic in tone, I was probably on the bus. If it deals with the travails of peeing one’s pants, I was surely drunk.
Nice!
If your friends and loved ones constantly complain your in your own little world…
Well of course I am! jeez….
I think the answer to that ends up being your friends and loved ones just kind of lock you in a room, and maybe at some point, you realize they’ve moved on.
“Honey, what do you think of this line? Honey? Honey? Where the hell…”
This one was fun, buddy, including the readers’ responses. But I am concerned that crafting a crisis is more satisfying than reaching a climax. Strikes me that you ought to hold the two in separate categories of your life. But who am I so say? I’m seventy-four! So keep on crafting–and doing that other thing, too, whatever it is. forget. . .
Randell, there was supposed to be an “I” starting that last sentence above. As I said, I forget. . .