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 was once killed. notwithstanding 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 typhoon of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring criminal lawsuits over the coincidence. In An unintended Memoir, Reed, an award-winning documentary filmmaker, issues the lens at herself and explores that coincidence and a succession of non-public studies via truth and fiction. informed from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, unsuitable humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of non secular grace. Taken jointly, this number of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales develop into a meditation on topics similar to paintings, kinfolk duties, dying, and elevating a...
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Additional info for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
Apparently I had more pressing concerns: I researched the upbringing of the literary Brontë siblings for my major paper and filled my research diary with notes on why redbirds return at dawn, day after day, to peck a house’s aluminum gutters. 8 million accidents. I saw her car, smashed, her body trapped inside. Although statistics suggest that one in four people will be involved in a serious automobile accident in his or her lifetime, it wasn’t statistics that mattered. While the emergency people were tending to her, I grabbed my son.
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. Gotta get down. Nothing major. No decathalon or anything. Not even walking. And in this room. Standing only. The legs are amused; they like a good pun. They’re even more amused at the thought of standing. I think of an alternative. Maybe I can slide right off.
I was not a statistic, just a mother who happened to be a teenager. For her first birthday I told her she was getting a sister. Life came easy. I didn’t consider pregnancy the ultimate act of creation that culminated in a tiny work of art, but I worked at it as obsessively as any artist does. I measured every morsel that went into my mouth; I became a walking vitamin and talking encyclopedia; I documented every pound, stretch mark, and perinatal aerobics class. I even I finished out the season with my softball team—“Just don’t slide,” my OB/GYN said.
An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories by Wendy Reed