I just heard today that when William Faulkner would write a novel, first he would lock himself in his barn and stay drunk for six weeks. After conceiving of his next master peice in this drunken fury, he would emerge, sober up, and go write As I Lay Dying. One day, when he was retireing to the barn, his daughter came to plead with him not to get wasted this time. "Please, do it for me daddy," she said. But William Faulkner just turned to her, looked her straight in the eye and said, "No one remembers Shakespeare's daughter."