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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

Ginny went to a well-to-do high school, stole a bulldozer, lost her virginity, was raped by the cop investigating the incident of the stolen bulldozer and got dumped by the guy to whom she'd lost her virginity as a consequence of telling him she got raped by the cop. Then she went to Sarah Lawrence College...briefly. She was, after all, bright and talented and slightly crazy—a poet, an actress, a dancer, an incisive, witty, sparkling conversationalist—and her parents, all three of them, had more money than God. While she was at school she hung out with Jill Clayburgh and fell in love with a guy who was in grad school at Brown. His name was Roger Singmaster. She went too nuts one Christmas and he dumped her. That broke her heart. She cut her wrists, quit school, went into a private psycho ward in La Jolla, lived with her father in Piedmont for awhile, then moved to San Francisco, got an apartment on 45th Avenue, enrolled at San Francisco State College, had a date with two different guys on New Year's Eve of 1962, and the three of them ended up at the Jazz Workshop. Jimmy Witherspoon was there. So was I. So was Elliot.

Ginny Good, Chapter Two, (Del Mar)

I stopped off at Washington Square, got whacked on the shoe by a cop for lying on a bench, and heard Bob Dylan singing in the basement of a brick building. People were lined up going down a stairwell. You had to pay money to get in. I didn't have any. A guy on the sidewalk told me Dylan stole everything he did off of Woody Guthrie. I told the guy, "No shit." I knew all about Bob Dylan from the communists on Clayton Street.

Ginny Good, Chapter Thirteen, (Stockton Street)

Minuscule sparks of static electricity crackled between the hairs on our arms. We caught each other's eye and smiled. One of her breasts brushed my cheek. My elbow pressed against her bony ribcage. She didn't move away. I said something about the weather. She looked bored for a second, then her expression softened. She shrugged her shoulders and looked right into my eyes like she was trying to tell me to shut the fuck up and stick my hand up her dress. It was a compelling expression. She might have used it a time or two before, back in New Jersey—or maybe she practiced in front of a mirror.

Ginny Good, Chapter Twelve, (Clayton Street)