I hear voices. My characters talk to me.
I go blank at odd times. I’m watching my characters’ scenes in my mind’s eye.
I carry a notebook and three pens everywhere I go. I’m far more likely to forget my keys or phone than my notebook and pens.
I eavesdrop in restaurants, check-out lines, and waiting rooms. Sometimes I take notes.
As soon as anyone opens their mouth to speak to me, I say “let me write this down.”
I create complete backstories for interesting strangers.
I have called my husband by my character’s name. More than once.
If the cops checked my Google search history, I might be put on a watch list. I research odd things, like what a stab wound looks like.
I have ink marks on my sheets.
I record elements from interesting or scary dreams to use in stories.
I collect names. I have roughly 1000 female names, 750 male names, and 4200 surnames on a spreadsheet.
My idea of a fun trip to the mall is to sit quietly on a bench and watch people. I take notes.
I sometimes converse in metaphor, which can confuse the hell out of everyone else at the table.
I speak lines of dialog out loud. In public. I get odd looks.
I get excited every time a stranger says they write. I want to shut the world down so we can talk shop.
My non-writer friends’ eyes glaze over when I talk about my current WiP.
My husband thinks I’m crazy and fears he will appear in one of my stories.
I have more than one WiP and two binders full of pre-write notes for a dozen more. The rest are in a haphazard file system that only makes sense to me.
I do household chores just for the side benefit of ideas and plotting.
I have writing dates with other writers. On Skype. We can go for hours without speaking.