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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

We got a ride up to the top of Pike's Peak, then got lost trying to find our way back down again. It got cold. It snowed. Then it got dark. We thought we might freeze to death. We built a fire and made up stories about how, centuries later, people would discover our skeletons. When the sun came up, we weren't lost after all. The outskirts of the town were just behind the next little ridge of rocks. All we had to do was walk another few hundred yards.

The day after we almost froze to death, some of Ginny's New Age buddies started showing up. They had some kind of loose affiliation with Elizabeth Clare Prophet. I never really got to the bottom of it all. They talked about St. Germaine, the Archangel Michael and some bunch of glowing guys they called "Ascended Masters." They all wore pastel clothes and had faraway looks in their eyes, and every two-bit thing that ever happened to any of them had some big cosmic purpose. They adored Ginny. She fit right in. Every two-bit thing she ever did her whole life always had some big cosmic purpose.

Ginny Good, Chapter Thirty, (Manitou Springs)

Wanda was pissed that Thulin dumped her. She didn't try to get him back, no—that wouldn't have been her style. She took it out on him by naming his kid "Popeye." She'd been going to name him Jon but decided at the last second to name him Popeye, instead. Dick Joseph kept track of her, too. He kept track of everyone. According to him, Wanda got on welfare, went back to school and ended up working as a dental hygienist in a small, rural community just outside Tallahassee, Florida—the sort of place a kid named Popeye would fit right in.

Ginny Good, Chapter Twenty-One, (Foghorn Fish-and-Chips)

In Jackson, Mississippi, three guys in a red pickup thought I was a freedom rider. I wasn't. They were members of an organization called "Americans for the Preservation of the White Race." One of them held a shotgun under my chin. He held it steadily, like he'd done it before. I told them in my best Southern drawl that I was on my way up to Memphis, looking for work. I was all for Negroes being able to eat at white restaurants and drink from white drinking fountains and go to school with white kids and not get themselves lynched every five seconds, sure, but the way I figured it was that Martin Luther King and Ralph Abernathy were doing a fine job of fixing all that. I simply did not see how getting my head blown off would have helped. The guys in the pickup dropped me off at the north end of town. That might have been worth writing about, but I doubted it.

Ginny Good, Chapter Thirteen, (Stockton Street)

I had to take another semester of high school when my family moved to California. Then, even though I wrote a paper that correctly predicted that Kennedy would win the 1960 presidential election...and by how many electoral votes from which states (including astutely allowing for voting irregularities in Cook County), the crew-cut Nazi government teacher at the high school in California almost fucking flunked my ass that time, too, and I almost didn't graduate again. I still have nightmares about it. I find myself stuck in long, complicated dreams of living the rest of my life in one great big endless government class with Mrs. Miller standing over me like Winston Churchill in drag, wagging a churlish, spiteful, self-satisfied finger in my face, telling me that I never will know the separation of powers from the separation of church and state. I wake up in cold sweats...but the only thing that really matters about any of this is that that was how I got to know Elliot Felton. If Mrs. Miller hadn't flunked my ass, none of this would have ever happened.

Ginny Good, Chapter Three, (Royal Oak)