Note: all stuff written here is mine (warts and all). It's probably first draftish stuff, and hasn't seen the inside of an editor's head yet, so be warned. And also, please don't steal it. Thanks.
Dawn loved to write. She never felt like she had writer's block. A blank page was a challenge not an obstacle. Filling the page with words was like nothing else in the world to her. Seeing a story come together in front of her eyes was like smelling brownies as they are baking; the smell fills your head and drips down to your mouth and you can practically taste the chocolately goodness right out of the air. Writing was like that to her. Putting word after word onto the paper, filling her head and her heart with people and places and goings-on... it was as if she could travel anywhere with a stroke of her pen.
Dawn's favorite place to write was up in her bedroom on a sunny afternoon. Their little house on Bathtub Row in the middle of Los Alamos was one of the nicer homes in the compound. Her father's job, the fact that her mother was one of the few female scientists and their friendship with Dr. Oppenheimer secured the house they now had. Looking out her south-facing window, the New Mexican summer sun streaming in, Dawn would watch dust devils and sun-shimmers play across the landscape, seeing them transform into actors on a stage for her to enjoy. It was as if she only had to watch the play and capture a transcription of the action in front of her.
Sitting on her favorite ottoman, the purple carpeted "Mehitable the Sittable" that Dr. Oppenheimer had given her for her fourth birthday, Dawn propped her feet up onto her desk and leaned her back onto the wall in the corner. Scooting the chair around to be within reach, she arranged her favorite pens on the seat next to some extra notebooks that just came in from town. Dawn had just enough time before dinner to finish the story she had started in Civics class today, but you never know when inspiration would strike and another story would announce itself and demand its own place in a notebook.
Getting comfortable, legs at just the right angle for notebook propping, pen newly filled and ready to go, Dawn read over what she had scribbled down this morning and let the scene form in her mind. The sun was hot on her lap, but this bright wonderful corner was the best place to capture the stories as they danced by on the breeze. Her mother would complain that Dawn's posture was getting worse by the day because of that corner and why didn't she ever use the desk as it was intended instead of a foot-rest? But this was the way Dawn wrote. It worked for her, and even at age 15, she knew enough not to mess with success.