CAMBRIDGE - A dusty beam of light shook loose from the winter sun and crept down the long, lonely hallway. It is here that the cries of newborns once echoed along the halls, now chipped and peeling in a silence that has lasted for seven years. "I was probably one of the last people out of the building,"she said.
As a writer, you write to communicate the stories of others. And you write stories for others to read.
I have been reorganizing some of my work of the past few years and grouping them together, when possible, into weekly themes.
One week it is music, another it is tragedies, and so it goes.
Pieced together they tell the story of the times in which we live - what we did, how we felt, what we thought.
At least that is my intention.