A gutting and powerful new memoir from a master of the form, Good, God probes Laymon's relationships with three generations of women in his life—his grandmother, his former partner, and his unborn daughter.

When Kiese Laymon’s former partner invites him to help her create a child in the age of Trump, Laymon must reckon with how a romanticization of good, God, Mississippi, and most importantly, his grandmother, have telegraphed the kind of friend, father, and artist he can be. If Laymon's grandmother is right when she says, "God been gone," how does one actually make anything good in America? Laymon continues his courageous, wide-open approach to memoir with Good, God, a literary attempt at heeding his grandmother’s plea to revise the Ten Commandments, while making more intentional the paradoxical intimacy and brutality inherent between readers and writers of contemporary memoir.

Spanning from childhood to the present, set against the last fifty years of specific American hospitality, when "much of the nation said we were good for nothing, godless people who should be happy to be invited into white American rooms, and white American myths we actually made possible,” Laymon refuses to cede the shape or sound of those rooms to the worst of himself, and the worst of the nation. Good, God is a resonant plea for more good, more god, and most importantly, more holy creative space where we might ruggedly remake what we have collectively made so wrong.

Delivered through several powerful episodes—a memorable childhood meeting with a mysterious stranger who irritates his grandmother, a visit to his grandmother's house by a kind Northern white family who first meets his grandmother in his books, the process of trying to create a child with his good friend as he is treated for cancer—Good, God invites us into the intentionally forgotten rooms and spaces of experience where good, God, and American grandmothers are made holy.