My family can always tell when I'm well into a novel because the meals get very crummy.
In real life I avoid all parties altogether, but on paper I can mingle with the best of them
I'm too shy for personal appearances, and I've found out that anytime I talk about my writing, I can't do any writing for many weeks afterward.
I suspect that marriage is like parenthood: every last one of us is an amateur at it.
And she thought what a clean, simple life she would have led if it weren't for love.
I'll write maybe one long paragraph describing the events, then a page or two breaking the events into chapters, and then reams of pages delving into my characters. After that, I'm ready to begin