By Jennifer Weiner
A haunting, unique eStory from Jennifer Weiner.
When Eleanor Goode meets Gerald King, she's a senior at Wellesley who's received all of the writing prizes. He's simply released his first novel, Dirty Blond, and is easily on his technique to turning into one of many literary lions of his day. Gerry seduces Ellie, spinning her a delusion of operating with him, writers, aspect via aspect. How may perhaps she have recognized that, of their years jointly, it might be one typewriter, no longer ; his phrases, no longer hers? How she may turn into the fetcher of espresso, the holder of trinkets lovers could press into his fingers after readings, the keeper of his legacy.
A Memoir of Grief (Continued) starts off with Gerald’s dying. Ellie, who hasn't written greater than a grocery checklist in a long time of marriage, had no goal of writing a memoir. It's now not till she realizes how broke he left her that she makes a decision to put in writing a whitewashed account of her lifestyles with the nice guy of Letters. Widow's Walk spends over a 12 months at the New York Times bestseller record. Critics hail Ellie's expertise, the revelatory manner she writes approximately grief, and the way to pass though it.
Ellie enjoys the eye, yet fortunately thinks that'll be the top of her literary career—until her agent starts off asking approximately one other book…
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Extra resources for A Memoir of Grief (Continued)
He tilted the dustpan over the wastebasket, and flour slid out with a soft foom, powdering the cast-out cartons and used-up cans. 10 “Hope Ellie didn’t take it too hard,” Jud Crandall said. Not for the first time Louis thought that the man had a peculiar— and rather uncomfortable—ability to put his finger gently on whatever the sore spot was. He and Jud and Norma Crandall now sat on the Crandalls’ porch in the cool of the evening, drinking iced tea instead of beer. On 15, going-home-after-the-weekend traffic was fairly heavy—people recognized that every good late-summer weekend now might be the last one, Louis supposed.
Never mind. I am home in my own bed. It’s just a dream, no matter how vivid, and like all other dreams, it will seem ridiculous in the morning. My waking mind will discover its inconsistencies. The small branch of a dead tree poked his bicep rudely and he winced. Up ahead, Pascow was only a moving shadow, and now Louis’s terror seemed to have crystallized into a bright sculpture in his mind: I am following a dead man into the woods, I am following a dead man up to the Pet Sematary, and this is no dream.
But that was not what had happened, and a moment later he was forced to realize it. A swooning, mad terror struck him and his flesh began to creep avidly, seeming to actually move up and down his arms and along his belly in waves. . but even then he simply refused to believe it Yes, the syllables had been on the bloody lips of the man on the carpet as well as in Louis’s ears, but that only meant the hallucination had been visual as well as auditory. ” he whispered. ” The eyes were vacant, not-seeing, rimmed with blood: the mouth grinning the large grin of a dead carp.
A Memoir of Grief (Continued) by Jennifer Weiner