You might be a writer if . . .

Your spouse refuses to take you to the movies anymore because you mutter editing advice on how to tighten the dialogue and strengthen the plot.

You read books with a red pen in hand.

You pass judgment before hitting the period of the first sentence in any novel on whether the author has any intelligence at all.

All major relationship decisions are based on whether the other person knows the difference between lay and lie.

You got kicked out of Sunday School for pointing out a place in the Songs of Solomon where you felt the author lacked vision.

You cry in bookstores when you see a new book published by the imprint that recently rejected you.

You get caught eavesdropping on conversations, but insist you're not being nosy, just doing research.

Anyone who ever wronged you back in high school is now either a victim or an incompetent villain in one of your novels.

You know what a rejection letter sounds like as it swirls around in the garbage disposal.

You know what a rejection letter sounds like as it swirls around in the toilet.

You've ever said, "Well they just didn't read it!" after getting a rejection letter.

You've ever believed you could pay off your house with your first royalty check. HAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!!!! And now that you know you can't, you find that it isn't really that funny.

Your children eat corn dogs and Happy Meals when you're on a deadline.

Your children eat a lot of corn dogs and Happy Meals.

You named your dog Victor, your fish Hugo and your two parakeets Jane and Austen.

You hear voices in your head conversing, arguing, falling in love . . . and somehow you're sure this doesn't mean your crazy,

merely a writer . . .