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Ginny Good, A Mostly True Story:

Read and/or Watch

After you write your book, get an agent and get it published, then (if your agent didn't sell it to some big, bullshit publisher with a heavy-duty hype department, in which case you do whatever dumb-ass thing they tell you to do), you have to somehow get someone to read the sucker...and review it. That's close to impossible. The pages with this notification have thousands of media boys and girls listed, one of whom may hype your book. They have to justify their existence somehow, right? G.

July 3, 2023

"On or before July 14, 2023" the host of my website is bagging it for lots of exquisite reasons. So am I. You can see the last 20 years or so here:

https://web.archive.org (stick everyonewhosanyone.com in the box).

They're getting rid of my email address, too. Use this:

gerardjones@proton.me

If you want to read my written stuff, click this:

https://gerardjones.medium.com/lists

If you want to see or listen to my video/audio books, click these or this and look around:

https://vimeo.com/showcase/9864586

https://vimeo.com/showcase/9862816

https://vimeo.com/user41893142

If you want to know how to write, click this:

https://gerardjones.substack.com

Thanks. G.

Gerard Jones
gerardjones@proton.me

I'm using everyone's real name. They can all sue me. I hope they do. I could use the excitement. It gets kind of boring living up here in my eighty-year-old mother's house on the side of a mountain in Ashland, Oregon. She likes having me around, though. She wasn't all that happy being by herself. My dad died...wow, a while ago, going on nine years now. Sometimes it feels like yesterday; other times it feels like he's still alive. We keep finding scrawled notes in his ninth-grade handwriting here and there—like when I change a fuse in the fuse box or my mother digs through the glove compartment looking for a map.

Ginny Good, Chapter One, (Ashland)

Sometimes it made sense to him to take less morphine and deal with the pains in his stomach on his own. One of the ways he did that was by imagining that he was fishing. It may have looked to the casual observer like he was propped up on pillows in a rented hospital bed, but in reality my father was out in a rowboat on Howard Prairie Lake, fishing his guts out. The pains in his stomach were fish. He'd feel one nibble the bait, give the line a little tug to set the hook, then gingerly bring it up the side of the boat and slip the hook out of its mouth and solemnly club it to death. That felt good for a second. Then he tossed the line back in to try to catch another.

Ginny Good, Chapter Thirty-Three, (Scenic Hills)