One standard question or another leading to the usual anecdote of him assuming the identity of his characters, getting inside their heads:
Before they saw me, they had assumed that Robert Jordan was the penname of a woman, because, they said, no man could write women that well.
Although I seem to remember an interesting bit here about you not wanting to meet him after he’d just written somebody like Hannibal Lector. Sometimes he’d come down for dinner and Harriet, without him having said a word, would say, “You’ve been writing Padan Fain again, haven’t you?” And although it would not always be Padan Fain, it would be one of the non-pleasant characters.
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