I was taught that a writer does not compose a single sentence, do a cut and paste of another person’s work, and then set it in quotes. 

     Writing is, if behind all you’ve written, you exposed your soul.  You are a writer, if you’ve sweated each word and shed tears over scenes that you thought were great.  You are a writer if, as in my case, you’ve mumbled every cuss word in existence while you ripped those same crappy scenes out.

     I have conversations with that little editor on my shoulder.  Most of them are laced with words my mother would have washed my mouth out with soap for uttering.

     Editor:  “That scene sucks.”

     Me:  “Shut the #%&* up I need to finish this chapter.”

     Editor:  “But the scene-”

     Me:  “Bite me.  I’ll rewrite it later.”  I change the font to red so I remember to do it later.

     Editor:  “Shouldn’t that be a comma?”

     Me:  “I’m not friggin’ running grammar check every blankety blank paragraph.  It can wait until the end of the chapter.”

     Editor:  “Would she really say that?”

     Me:  “Shut the #%&* up!  No, you’re right she wouldn’t.”  Delete, delete, delete.

     And so it goes, scene after scene, chapter after chapter until the air above me is smoldering.  No wonder Dear Hubby absconds when I sit down to work.