You ignore the 'phone. You never visit anyone. You never see daylight. You become an obsessive, manic depressive, socially inept word junkie. You can't hold a conversation with anyone without wondering whether you could use that conversation in your book.
Events become scenes.
I stand in the mist and cry, thinking of myself standing in the mist and crying, and wondering if I will ever be able to use this experience in a book. The trouble is, I don't like being this selfish. All this objectification of Life just sucks . They are, as I've said, one and the same thing. You are not a serious human being unless you settle down and wed, and you are not a serious writer unless you produce a tome or two.