(found in the buried files of this computer...) probably written sometime in 06 during a class?

A Good Writer, A Terrible Person

She ran her tongue over her chapped lips absentmindedly and noticed the candied taste of her lip gloss, which was no longer providing the desired moisturizing function it was designed for. Without looking up from her copy of The New York Times (the Living section, more specifically) she reached into her purse with her free arm and rummaged through the mass of pens, receipts, business cards and discarded take-out menus for some nice reliable chapstick. Eventually her fingers grasped the desired tube and applied it generously to her mouth.

As usual she was completely oblivious to the world around her. She was reading her newspaper, the setting was not important. At this precise moment, if she felt compelled to lower her eyes from the text on the page, she would be fully surprised by any setting that met her. She didn’t know if she was in a coffee shop, on a train or bus, in a park or in her own apartment. When she was reading or writing she rarely concerned herself with such trivialities as where she was, that of course wasn’t relevant to the story.

This mindset usually served her very well as a writer. She was more capable then almost anyone of transporting herself into different eras, simply because she never truly existed in her own. As a person, it wasn’t a sought after characteristic, and one critic even stated in their review of her last book: “Audrey Lennox: A good writer, but a terrible person.” But seeing as though she rarely read her own book reviews (she knew what words she chose, she knew the story she told better than anyone else, why did she need to know what they thought of it) she wasn’t aware that this was becoming a popular association with her name in the literary world.