W. C. McClure can be a difficult one to track down, given time, space and other universal shifts that might be afoot, which is most disconcerting when she disappears in plain sight. If cornered on the subject, she claims merely that she’s looking for something.

Indoctrinated into the secret arts of description by the legendary gurus of remote snow-swept Cornell College, W is careful to exercise her literary skills only for the sake of good. It is at times a razor’s edge.

When W is located, she's most often spotted hunched over her small laptop, an office escapee turned lunch break novelist, soaring the spans of remote and fantastical worlds under the weight of the most enormous headphones purchasable, tongue waggling feistily at the corner of her mouth with the detached ambling persona of a cat’s flicking tail. When she is not found, well, that’s when the most exciting bits happen, isn’t it?