Regular readers will know that earlier this year I published a novel, Wildwood Exit, which is a noir/crime tale set at the New Jersey Shore (Wildwood and Cape May).

I reproduce here in its entirety a review of the novel that appeared in several venues online:

A Haunting Journey Through the Heart of the South

Wildwood Exit by Joel E. Turner is a captivating and atmospheric novel that weaves together elements of mystery, nostalgia, and personal reckoning. Set in a small Southern town with a name that suggests both wilderness and escape, the story follows characters wrestling with their pasts as they decide whether to stay rooted or make a break for something new. Turner’s writing is vivid and immersive, bringing the reader right into the dusty backroads, dim-lit diners, and secret-laden woods that shape the setting. The book balances gritty realism with thoughtful introspection, exploring themes of identity, grief, and the stubborn pull of home. The characters are well-developed—flawed, believable, and deeply human. Whether you’re drawn to Southern fiction, coming-of-age stories, or character-driven mysteries, Wildwood Exit offers a memorable journey. It leaves you reflecting on your own “exits” and the choices you make along the way.

 

Wow. I mean—wow. Just the review title is awesome in its erroneous splendor. Although, it is a pretty complimentary review. As is the custom, I take credit for all the good (=accurate) things that are said while dismissing the inaccuracies as typical of the reviewing class.

The original posting was on a site where I gave away an ebook in exchange for a promised review. My assumption is that the review was AI-generated, having that distinctive flavor of some accurate details coupled with what I suppose might be those hallucinations you hear about. I hope they enjoyed the ebook that they got for this editorial malfeasance.

I complained, the review was taken down and replaced by an apparently authentic and accurate review – perhaps AI-generated, perhaps not. I have not asked the reviewer whence the original version, so my apologies if it was just an honest mistake (NOT).

But I am not one to turn down an opportunity for a new market and have begun work on a Southern Fiction version of the novel, working title: WILDWOOD EXIT GOES YOKNAPATAWPHA! (with apologies to Mr. Faulkner).

And why not? In the music business, we get remixes, club mixes, ambient mixes—I’ve got a 12 inch recording by Kirsty McColl of “Walking Down Madison” with all of those.

Or, back in the old days, it wasn’t uncommon to have a cha-cha or a-go-go version on the B-Side. Witness the flip of the 1960 classic “Wild Weekend” by The Rockin’ Rebels on Marlee (I know, you have the more common version on Swan, as do I):

So, here’s a teaser for the forthcoming (very forthcoming) Southern Fiction adaptation of Wildwood Exit:

I looked up at the apparently secret-laden magnolia trees and wondered how a guy from a Southwest Philly rowhouse (i.e., me, John McGinty aka Ginty) ended up hanging out here in the land o’ cotton with a short, superannuated South Philly hoodlum who still wore a DA haircut in 1983 (i.e., Pinto, for the uninitiated; first name, Dominic, but good luck if you actually call him that).

“Lawdy, Dommy, this is one heck of a goldurn turn of events!” I cried.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man, you sound like Andy of Mayberry on a bad day.” Pinto was cross. “And what’s with this Dommy shit, my mom stopped calling me that when was in kindergarten.”

“Well I declare, did you forget, we’re doing this dixie-fried style, so hitch up yer britches and make with the corn-pone!”

“Oh, right.” Pinto concentrated, seeming to squash into himself. “Land sakes, ol’ Ginty, this is some mysterious woods we’re in, hoping we don’t see no haints tonight.” He paused and whispered. “How’s that?”

“Better. Now, ya’ll just take one of these here fishin’ poles and let’s amble over yonder past that there statue of Jefferson Davis—the finest soldier that ever fought for the Lost Cause.”

“Yessir, Mr Ginty, we gwine catch us some of them ol’ catfish from the ribber?”

“Alright, Pinto, remember, you’re just a countrified white guy, not the reincarnation of Nat Turner. Just dial it back a notch.”

Pinto threw down his fishing pole. “Man, this is bullshit. I can’t do this. I sound like Huckleberry Fucking Hound. Plus my loafers are getting all dusty from these goddam country roads. Don’t they got any asphalt contractors down here in East Bumfuck Township?”

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We apologize for the interruption to this tale of darkness and corruption in the sleepy old South as we have received complaints from the ACLU (not to mention the Daughters of the American Confederacy) about potential cultural appropriation and general Yankee insensitivity to our Southern neighbors.

This project is on hold while we reconsider our artistic direction and search for documentation of my great-grandfather’s service to the Confederacy during the War of Northern Aggression (true fact!) as an admittedly weak indication of my Southern bona-fides.

My sincere apologies to any Southern friends, readers or relatives – but what do you expect from a damn Yankee (even if his mother was from Rocky Mount, NC – birthplace of Thelonious Monk and Soupy Sales, btw)?

Credits:

Waffle House Photo by Simon Ray on Unsplash

Jefferson Davis Statue: By USCapitol – https://www.flickr.com/photos/65191584@N07/6264103436/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=177729635