Best Creative Nonfiction of the South - Vol. 1

Best Creative Nonfiction of the South - Vol. 1

Best Creative Nonfiction of the South - Vol. 1

Best Creative Nonfiction of the South - Vol. 1

Synopsis

Best Creative Nonfiction of the South, of which this Virginia collection is the first volume, serves as a valuable resource for scholars, students, writers, and general readers interested in creative nonfiction both from specific areas of the South and across the region as a whole. The writers included in each volume come from diverse backgrounds, generations, and artistic traditions. Most, if not all, volumes in the series indirectly reflect literary changes over time and/or how literary variations have manifested themselves in a given state. In some cases, publisher permissions and other factors have foiled the editors from including the work of deserving writers. Nevertheless, the abundant literary talent across the South has lessened the impact of the occasional unfortunate omission.

Excerpt

Adrian Blevins

The catalogue of infractions I have committed against this world would flood a small library, for what it’s worth. I pilfered a pack of gum before I could talk and pretended to know how to write in cursive at the age of five. When I showed my cousin the hieroglyphics I’d scratched all over her Scooby Doo drawing pad, I furthermore felt something like pride as she broke down in tears and went running to her mom because she couldn’t even write in regular letters yet. I distinctly remember cheating on a philosophy exam when I was in college; the plan took at least a week’s work of pre-meditation and is therefore fused into my memory like the three times I gave birth without so much as a shot of whisky. Speaking of whisky, I drove drunk more times than I can remember during my pre-maternal years and smoked pot when I was pregnant after they’d commenced. I let my kids skip school to keep me company when I was lonely. I also put them into bed with me when I felt desolate and told them to go back to sleep when they claimed to be thirsty. Oh, yes, I called in sick when I wasn’t sick. Oh yes, I talked about myself for an hour and half when I was supposed to be teaching my students how to recognize a sentence fragment.

As for how klutzy I am—as for how often I fall trying to walk up a flight of stairs or knock a door I’m opening into my own forehead—as for my inability to understand geography and history and physics and anything else that is by design complicated and . . .

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