Faulkner wired back with, "Yes, and she's 30,000 words long."
In a film parallel, Spielberg was talking about his then girlfriend, Amy Irving, who was visiting him on the set of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He was trying to describe how they were not getting along. "She keeps crying and I keep wanting to say, 'Don't you understand, I'm fucking my movie?'"
This is what happens when you are deeply absorbed in an artistic endeavor. The rest of the world no longer matters.
Will be back when I'm done with my current novel. Soon, soon, soon.