The release date had finally arrived. I had spent the latter half of the previous year simultaneously anticipating and dreading the moment the celebrity memoir I had ghostwritten would be released. I was hoping for a critic to call it “heartfelt, at times funny but ultimately brilliant” and for readers to line up in droves. I was especially hoping to fulfill the dream of every author (even an anonymous one): a spot on The New York Times Best Sellers List.
But its arrival was met with little fanfare. Nobody was talking about the book. Barely even the celebrity who ostensibly wrote it.
It wasn't just my ego that wanted the book to do well. I needed it to make a huge impact for my earnings and future prospects as a ghost. This book was meant to be a calling card for my services. I didn’t just need it to succeed. It had to.
A ghost who doesn’t sell might as well be D.O.A.
Landing the gig was nothing short of miraculous. It arrived at a time when I needed money badly. Post-pandemic, I was once again jobless and looking for jobs. After my unemployment benefits expired, I found myself staring down one remaining option to pay the bills: gig work, specifically driving Lyft.
I remember telling myself, I really don't want to do this shit again. I convinced myself I wouldn't be driving long. I was trusting that the universe would reward me with a fabulous opportunity for doing what I needed to do to survive. And sure enough, the same week I picked up my Lyft rental, I got an email from a literary agent looking for a ghostwriter for a celebrity who’d sold a memoir. Praise be!
During our first meeting, I was surprised by how warm, kind and present the celebrity was. I had been following their work though I’d never quite considered myself a fan. I made a point to get up to speed on all they've done over the span of their career in case something came up in conversation. I didn't want to appear uninformed.
What struck me most was that, as a sort of “non-fan fan,” I found myself more impressed personally by them than I had been by their entire body of work.
It seemed like forever before I heard from the agent, but in reality it had only been two weeks. I braced for the courteous letdown, but they offered me the gig.
I accepted the ghostwriting assignment knowing I would have to turn in nearly 100,000 words in less than five months. I figured that would be doable because I was promised as much access to the celebrity as I needed. I was given the book proposal, but it wasn't as useful as I'd hoped. It read more like a slightly more charming version of their Wikipedia page. Luckily, I wasn't without resources. There was a considerable archive of print and video interviews to draw on.
I was confident I had enough material to capture their voice and story, but with limited time, the process was going to be more of a headache than I'd initially anticipated.
I was determined to stay positive. I sat at my computer alternating between scheduling and conducting interviews with the celebrity and brainstorming chapter ideas while simultaneously coming undone. Our interview sessions gave me some material but not enough to hit the required word count. I'd ask the celebrity for input but they were completely disengaged. They kept saying that they trusted me, but it soon became clear that I wasn't just the ghostwriter. I was the ideator, the researcher, the therapist, the everything. I did all this for one flat fee. And I was stressed.
A few months in, I was also barely eating, bathing, or sleeping. I'd send what I had written to the celebrity for feedback and get nothing back. Ever.
The weight of it all became apparent during a call with a good friend near my deadline. I had been awake for more than 36 hours. I was delirious, my emotions all over the place. My friend said she was worried because I was sounding crazy, like some, 5150 "leave Britney alone" shit. She told me to turn in what I had even if it was below the required word count. She urged me to stop killing myself over a book that wouldn’t even bear my name.
Even if it wasn’t really “mine,” I wanted this book to be good and I wanted to be a professional. I couldn’t come this far and blow it. I’m a ghost, but I’m not a hack.
The book came out and, as I said, it didn’t set the world on fire. It hardly even sparked.
After killing myself to produce someone else’s book, it wasn’t doing the numbers that I hoped it would. Like so many books by celebrities and non-celebrities alike, it came and went.
That’s what it means to be a ghost. You may rattle the furniture, but in the end, you’re meant to quietly see yourself out. No one knows what it took for you to briefly possess your better known author, and really, nobody cares. Long after the book’s done, you’re the only one still haunted by it.
A version of this story ran in Gazetteer San Francisco issue 3.
