I'd rather read books than talk to people.

I'd rather stay at home than go out.

I'd rather be alone than with someone, anyone, even if it's someone I love.

I'd rather think my own thoughts than listen to someone else's.

I'd rather stay up all night reading than sleeping.

I'd rather talk about books and writing than talk about anything at all.

I'd rather be silent than respond out loud. I'd store my response and carry it with me and think about it and write about it later instead of blurting it out right away.

I'd rather say what I really think than say anything at all.

I'd rather not listen to small talk ever again in my life.

I'd rather someone else took care of my body—feeding it, making it pee and poop and sleep and do chores—so in the meantime I could write and read.

I'd rather feel a lot while alone than share what I feel with someone else.

I'd rather listen to silence than to music, and I'd rather listen to music than to the incessant noise of human talk.

I'd rather escape reality completely into books.

I'd rather be rude and read a book at a gathering (where I have to be for some reason) than force myself to interact with people with whom I have nothing in common.

I'd rather stare at flowers than watch TV, and I'd rather read a novel about flowers than stare at them.

I'd rather not eat. It takes up too much time away from writing.

I'd rather never return from the rooms and the woods and the dark drafty places I visit in my head. I'd rather live there for the rest of my life.

I'd rather be an inadequate writer.

(I only started this list. You go ahead and continue.)