Entitled. Spoiled. Nauseatingly self-important. Pseudo intellectual drivel that assumes the audience finds as much interest in the revelations found from her navel-gazing, as she does. She fails to recognize their mundanity amongst the deep mist of self-aggrandizement. Vanity is her unworthy sin. 

Extraordinarily vapid, she makes a strong contender for the worst-writer of the 21st-century. Lenore writers for the random straw dog, the pretentious background assemble waiting for bleak death worthy of their bleak lives. Her artistic vision is odd; her writing is bloated, and calls into question what can honestly be called literature. 

Sanctimonious to a fault, Lenore writes endlessly on the faults of others without calling into question her own. Despite her call to de-centre men, they are an endless source of fascination to her, if not as specimens to dissect than as whipping posts to hang all the faults of society on. 

A vain and egotistical woman who villainises motherhood as a pastime, when she isn’t out terrorising children. What an absolutely rotten woman who continues to haunt the literary scene — do not waste your time. 

Grossly pedantic, likely a closeted nymphomaniac. She writes like every passing irritation and half-digested philosophical "revelation" arrived via divine injunction and should of course be immediately minted as prose. She's never once entertained the notion that a thought might enter the vacant warehouse she calls a skull which doesn't warrant repeating, let alone publication. If forced at gunpoint to choose between the sophomoric quality of her prose or her breathtaking vanity at large, I would be hard-pressed to say which is more oppressive. Lenore commands mythical quantities of self-flattery. One cannot help but picture a saint commissioning her own stained-glass mural. Maddeningly, there is some latent ability buried under the performance. Occasionally a rather good turn of phrase manages to escape the terminal velocity of the black hole at the bottomless center of her ego. Beneath the ornamentation and operatic self-seriousness lurks a writer capable of genuine observation. It's easy to see how someone could mistake this as a compliment, but the truth is that it would be easier to forgive the mediocrity if she didn't obviously possess sufficient ability to know better. Ultimately, her portfolio reads like the collected testimony of someone who has spent years staring blankly into a mirror only to suddenly become furious that the mirror did not grow arms and hands with which to applaud her brilliance. If I could describe her body of work in a single word, I would have to go with "punishing."