Anyone who touches your manuscript is absolutely required to answer two questions: Did you read it? and, based on their answer, Why not? or What did you think of it?
On your desk you have things like five pads of half-used sticky notes, a day-old cup of coffee, a dog-eared copy of Roget's Thesaurus, a cable for something you can't remember, and/or a pen that ran out of ink last week.
The only thing that worries you about the North Korean "weather satellite" currently tumbling out of control in the stratosphere is whether or not another writer will publish a story based on it before you can.
There is at least one Idiot's Guide to something about writing in your book collection; you keep hidden in the back of a desk drawer.
When someone tells you that they're writing a novel you ask them what it's about and then critique it in your head as they're describing it.
When your best friend calls to tell you about the horrendous argument she had with her guy, you take notes on the dialogue.
You have tabbed a Bible for easy reference but you haven't attended church services since you were six.
You have argued with or complained to a bookseller about the shelving arrangements in their store.
You have outlined a novel idea featuring a protagonist who is either an FBI agent, mutant, Navy Seal, private detective, shape-shifter, star ship navigator, werewolf or vampire, or some combination thereof. You have no intentions of writing the novel but still hang on to the outline, just in case.
You own a shirt printed with a profound quotation about writing that doesn't fit you anymore.