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 automobile, whose motive force used to be killed. although Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed firstly defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a typhoon of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring criminal complaints over the coincidence. In An unintended Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that twist of fate and a succession of non-public reports 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 number of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales develop into a meditation on matters comparable to paintings, kin duties, loss of life, and elevating a...
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Extra resources for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
For a second we were floating. Then everything went sideways. There was a whirring sound somewhere. And then we were moving faster. It’s odd to realize your car is out of control. Even though the median was across four lanes, on the other side of the freeway, I was suddenly there, in it. Mud was flying everywhere; my car was moving, but I couldn’t be sure if it was in circles or what. Then things slowed. I remember thinking I can’t believe I’ve gone across the freeway in morning traffic and not been hit.
Weak? Can we tell if the bones are female or male? I curl up under a faux leopard blanket in the swing on my screened-in back deck and stare at the swans. Six of the great white birds appeared the day after my daughter, Brianne, came back home. For months she’d lived only with her father despite joint custody. I almost went crazy missing my daughter. I wonder if Danny’s gone crazy missing his. I’d given up emailing him with alternatives to “organisations” that take care of problems like his. Maybe I should report him to the police.
Maybe as screwed up, too. ” I ask, struggling to rescue my nose from what, by the sound of things, must be a helium pump. And the doctor laughs. She, swear to God, starts laughing. But not hard enough to quit ruining my nose. I want to ask when she’s going to pump my stomach, tell me I was stupid, and send me on my way. But it’s hard to sound serious when you sound like Alvin the chipmunk. So this is my life. I’m lying flat on my back in an emergency room with a doctor standing over me threading my nose with tubing that is filling me up like the Hindenburg.