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.