Whitecloud Literary
 "To Breathe Is To Write."
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 Welcome to Whitecloud Literary.
Life’s journey ends at the horizon for those content to sit and wonder what lies beyond.  For some that will be far enough, but the human spirit is meant to soar and for most it will eventually demand new vistas.  Literature appealed to me for this fresh view. With its subtle twists of plot and circumstance, answers were often provided to questions I'd not asked. It took me to places where I'd never thought to go, and offered new spices that altered my literary palate forever. With the written word, a meaning can be suggested, supported, amplified, and clarified while a reader is led to some conclusion; what they see in the beginning is by no means what they glean in the end. So it was that literature escorted me on my journey to new perspectives.  
        Little did I know how broad the horizons could be, and how introspective a person can become in literature. It was not until I began putting my own thoughts on paper that I learned to truly appreciate the passage.  And with this appreciation came a question: why do I write?  As each of us seek our individual truths we can derive different answers to the same questions, and have yet more questions presented in an endless stream.  I see that as a test of my will.  And so tested, I strive to understand what is divulged.  With the knowledge gained I attempt to  fashion some sort of contribution or create some small gift that will lift up others, and by reflection elevate me.  Toward this end I frequently pause on my journey to quietly think and dream of what might be. 
        Things unseen, as things spiritual, fill the space that I can only sense behind reality’s curtain. This is the time for alertness and silence because, even though invisible, the truth will be recognized through other means by a diligent seeker, and quiet is the hunter of the elusive.  Silence is the wellspring of the imagination, the birthplace of things I never knew existed—like stories whose end I know before the beginning is told.  It is in that quiet time when the world I know is held in abeyance that pent images are formed as real, the complete chronicle is revealed, and the last page magically turned to disclose the end—a mystery solved.
        I find being alone in my thoughts with none to satisfy but myself both peaceful and inspiring.  It is in that time that I dwell on the constructive; to see myself as I know I am, objectively and without fear of contradiction, and to examine, with an eye to change, those features I find noisome.  It is that person, the naked one, who decides what I will dream about. I've concluded that the people in my dreams are me, or what I fear I could be—in different form to be surebut ultimatelythey represent who I truly am. These creatures of my subconscious world—intriguing glimpses inside—are the personalities who inhabit my stories.  Can it be otherwise?  I speak for them, I move them about my stage, and see them to prosperity or death.  How else can I do this but that I know their hearts and minds as I know my own? All that which makes me human is revealed in what I write because I can bare my soul without recrimination.  Such exposure has true benefits.
        When I trouble a character in a story with a problem I must also help them resolve it; and to do this I must examine it, and them, in minute detail.  And with each problem solved, each dilemma overcome, I feel I am one step closer to being a more complete person, one thought closer to completing my journey.
 It is my fervant desire that you read what I have written and derive some comfort from the words, be inspired to laugh or cry at a scene, see something in your life with fresh eyes, or in some way benefit from my efforts.  

Best wishes to you,

Wallace