By Wendy Reed
On a wet Tuesday morning in 1996, Wendy Reed's motor vehicle hydroplaned, crossed an interstate median, and crashed into an oncoming vehicle, whose motive force was once killed. even though Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed at the start defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a hurricane of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring criminal lawsuits over the twist of fate. In An unintentional Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that coincidence and a succession of non-public reviews via truth and fiction. instructed from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, incorrect humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of religious grace. Taken jointly, this selection of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales develop into a meditation on matters comparable to paintings, kin duties, demise, and elevating a...
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Additional info for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
Death happens. Live and let live. Live and let die. One is the loneliest number. One comes before two. One follows nothing. He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother. We are family. I got all my sisters with me. I do have two sisters. She did, too. Before, we were strangers traveling in opposite directions. Now it’s impossible to say where either one of us is. In what may or may not be a calculated effort, I wrote some stories. If memory is to addition what nonfiction is to subtraction then fiction is left to choose to multiply or divide.
Big Mama believed signs from God were everywhere. Why not pharmaceutical packaging? She also believed in the Trinity. I take three boxes. After cooking the food in my new home, I take it to my ex-home, where my ex-husband and our kids will find it when they get in from the lake. They love a roast beef dinner, even if it’s covered with my lumpy gravy. Out of reflex I look for my dog, Jenks. ” anymore. After fifteen years of hanging about, he up and wandered off. I drive the mile back to my new house.
Here,” the orderly said, handing me the gown. I’d gotten into my room and up onto the examining table. He closed the door and left. Even less-than-coherent, I knew my dress—a short, tight, one-zipper deal that made my ass look good—was supposed to come off first before the gown went on. But apparently my dress had developed boa constrictor tendencies and the sweat wasn’t helping. Nor could I just beam myself out of it. I would have to get down off the table in order to get it unzipped. Apparently having lost all trust in my brain to get timely messages delivered to my extremities, I whispered this to my legs: Need a little help here.