By Wendy Reed
On a wet Tuesday morning in 1996, Wendy Reed's automobile hydroplaned, crossed an interstate median, and crashed into an oncoming automobile, whose driving force used to be killed. although Reed and her son have been unhurt and Reed at first defined herself as "fine," within the months that she will be engulfed in a typhoon of guilt and recrimination, in addition to jarring felony complaints 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 private stories via truth and fiction. advised from strange views and in hugely figurative language, the tales draw at the Southern Gothic culture of Flannery O'Connor and have darkish humor, improper humans, disastrous occasions, and moments of religious grace. Taken jointly, this choice of intentionally fragmented essays and brief tales turn into a meditation on topics similar to paintings, kin obligations, demise, and elevating a...
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Additional info for An Accidental Memoir. How I Killed Someone and Other Stories
Websites adopt the nomenclature as a symbol of excitement. Even bungee rides at Six Flags Over Georgia provide adrenaline for the entire family. I confess that I hooked my daughters into the vest with me, held their hands as we rose, and then plummeted with them six stories towards the Scream Machine for a good rush. ” one daughter said. ” the other asked. I removed the skull, replaced it at the top of the skeleton and started toward the valley in the distance. I stopped, though, and turned back around.
I had not meant to go back to school any more than I’d meant to become a stay-at-home mom with a BS in education. I’d spent so much time reading children’s books that I thought I’d try my hand at writing one. I wound up in a fiction-writing class instead. It had wrapped up right before the wreck. My plan was to enjoy the break between terms before starting the Bibliography and Research Methods class in June. In May spring isn’t over but it felt like summer had already begun. This is not a story about seasons, though.
I was not working then and had not worked full-time since getting married at seventeen. Teachers at my high school thought I must be pregnant. I wasn’t. However by the next Mother’s Day—and in spite of having been diagnosed with uterine polyps when I was 11—according to three EPT sticks I was. I was also pulling an “A” in Psych 101, so it looked as though I might make it in pre-med after all. Spring is the season famous for fertility and apparently I was fertile, too. 0 when Brittany was born. I was not a statistic, just a mother who happened to be a teenager.