I am a writer.
Regardless of how many times I say it or in how many reviews I read “William Northrop Bradshaw, author,” I never grow accustomed to seeing my name accompanied by that title. Those words are instead my link to a time and a place far removed from book tours and the minor literary celebrity that comes with publication.
I"m not sure how that gossip columnist discovered my “dark secret” of a hidden, lost summer spent in partial confinement at the Liberty Street Home for the Elderly and Infirm, but the story–or at least versions of it–have found their way into print. Now I am forced to confront not only my past, but also the myths that have evolved. Some have speculated that I was a delinquent, a miscreant in want of firm parenting. Others write that I was a sociopath barely div
