Many people are fascinated with ghostwriting, the idea of sitting in a room with a celebrity and being privy to their secrets. Their disappointments and fears. Writing in somebody else’s voice. Seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. It takes skill and
practice to do it well, but the hardest part of ghostwriting is not the actual writing. It’s finishing the book and disappearing. Praise for your work shows up in someone else’s inbox. You have to let go of the intimate relationship you forged with your client and in most cases, you’ll never see them again. You will become a faint memory in their lives and when they appear on the latest talk show, they’ll discuss the writing process as if they did it themselves. And after a while, they’ll start to believe it. I spent a good year writing and
editing a woman’s book that hit Number on the bestselling list in a week. I was invited to her victory party where she thanked her agent, her manager, her publisher, everyone but me. She wanted to keep me a secret because sharing the acclaim made her feel inadequate.
Over the years, I’ve learned to withstand the ego shattering inevitability of it all. Instead of looking for kudos that will never show up, I’ve learned to appreciate being with someone who so excels in their field, they are an inspiration. I get to sit at their dinner tables, see what makes them tick and what matters most to them. I get to create a book, something I love to do. That, along with a healthy pay check, has come to be enough. But when I started out, each project was a test of my ego to let go and
accept terms of the deal. The following happened early in my
career:
It’s 1998 and I’m sitting at the edge of my bed, staring at the television. I usually sit back against a mountain of pillows. I’m the pillow queen. But tonight, I’m too jittery. I’m waiting for the David Letterman Show to begin because my latest client is about to promote the book that I wrote for her and my name is on the cover. It reads: “By (client’s name) and Andrea Cagan. That’s me. The “and.” Sometimes I’m the “with.”
Dave comes walking out, he performs his monologue and and takes a seat at his desk. My client emerges from behind a curtain and heads toward the designated chair beside Dave. She smiles broadly
at the applause. Her short blonde hair frames her face. Her suit looks expensive. So do her heels. She wasn’t the most forthcoming client I ever had but I managed to extract enough material out of her to get the book done. She isn’t the prettiest flower in the garden but the makeup people have done a good job. She is somewhat narcissistic but no more than any other performer and she was
never mean.
The book is sitting on Dave’s desk. Our book. The two of them banter easily and she elaborates on “the writing process.” As if. Dave picks up the book, opens it, reads a bookmarked paragraph
that I wrote and he holds up the cover. The camera zooms in. My client is sitting on a large rock on the beach. She’s barefooted. She’s wearing light blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a white blouse, casually tied at her waist. Her elbows are resting on her knees, her hands are under her chin, she’s wearing a soft smile and the title of the book is written in large letters just above her name. There’s one thing missing. Me. Someone has placed white tape over my name.
They might as well have taped my mouth shut. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I pick up the phone and call her agent. It’s 3:00 in the morning in New York. I don’t care.
“Hello.” His voice is groggy. “How
could she do this to me?”
“Do what?”
“She put tape over my name.”
“She didn’t do it. It must have
been someone else,” he said a little too quickly.
“Whoever it was,“ I say, “she could have stopped it. She should have. I worked hard for her. It’s in my contract that my name is on the cover. She owes me that.”
“Listen,” he says calmly. It’s the middle of the night, but he slides easily into agent mode, lying and placating at the same time. “It doesn’t matter. The publishers know you. They’ll be making you offers. I’ll make sure of that. Just don’t call her and bother her
with trivialities. She’s busy. She has a book to promote.”
I hang up the phone. I’m trivial and there’s nothing I can do about it, contract or no contract. There’s no way to fix it even if they wanted to, which they don’t.
The moral of the story is that you have to love what you’re doing while you’re doing it. You have to “Be Here now.” Be where you are. Stop imagining what might happen. Stop remembering what already
happened. Just keep on writing.
I meet with a friend three times a week to take a long walk. Sometimes we don’t feel like doing it but we keep putting one foot in front of the other. No one praises us for showing up but we feel great when we’re finished. We feel accomplished. In the same way, just keep writing one word after another and take pride in the finished project. I’m not saying it’s easy to get no outward recognition for your efforts but you can recognize yourself. If you keep haranguing yourself and tell yourself you’re a failure, then you will be. You just have to find a way to enjoy the doing of it and make it worth your while because the process is the reward. Fighting against the tide is exhausting and you don’t get what you want. You end up getting
battered and bruised and disappointed. One of my spiritual teachers said, “No appointments, no disappointments.”
Going with the flow and finding grace in what I do is energizing and rewarding. Granted it takes some practice and self-coaching. It feels lonely because I’ve signed an NDA and I can’t share what I’m doing with anyone, but choosing grace astounds me. When I let of
wishing and hoping and use grace as a guiding principle, I can embrace the openness and lightness that all of us crave. We may be discouraged by the work and how difficult it is, but now and again, grace shows up and invites us to deeply enjoy what we’re doing.
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