I love being a ghostwriter. Nothing makes me happier or keeps me saner than writing, but there’s so much more to it. It’s a way for me to be of service, to work with incredible people and, ultimately, to deliver stories into the world that might never have been told.
I have been blessed to work with a range of storytellers over the last ten years, producing fourteen books to date, fiction and non-fiction, in their name. My proudest achievement has been working with a woman who endured twenty years of domestic abuse before finally making her escape and becoming a campaigner against violence to women.
I love writing books about individual experiences – memoirs and autobiographies – that make readers laugh and cry, gasp and shudder, smile and think. But most of all, I love knowing that I am working on a project full of honesty and hope that will make a difference to readers and be long remembered after the last page is turned.
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Want to chat about your story? Email me … email@example.com
Interview yourself for your autobiography. A useful resource for autobiography writers.
I contacted ‘LGBT She-Ra’ a few weeks back to see if she would do me the honour of sharing her life story, to potentially create a memoir together. I should add at this stage that ‘She-Ra’ is not her real name. It does, however, reflect what an absolute warrior she is – a warrior of the heart.
“You’re in the river,” she says. “It’s choppy, too choppy, wild. It’s throwing you around. You’re drowning.”
What the hell is she trying to do? My panic intensifies, grows colour around it, as I’m thrown around by the unyielding current. How is this helping?
Good question …
“We could get dressed up, move the sofa, put the light out, grab the opera glasses and Frazzles.” (Our snack cupboard was looking a bit bare.)
So we did. I in my long pinstripe jacket and bowtie, hair oiled back and moustache drawn on with eyeliner pencil. She in her flapper dress and boa. I have no idea where she found the peacock feather to stick in her hair, but it was a nice touch.
It’s almost as if we spend our lives guarding our darkest secrets, shielding ourselves from the gaze of others, but what if these authentic parts are our most beautiful and human?
It’s such a small, frivolous thing to be thankful for when the world has been brought to its knees by influenza’s older, demented half-brother, with a chip on his shoulder and daddy issues.
If I don’t write every day, I lose confidence, and then I can’t write, because, like most creative people, I am quite mad.
I’m a buzzed-up giant. The washing machine in my head is spinning my clothes for the 800th time although they’re already clean. I’m a whirr. I’m polo-mint breath puffed onto an eyeball …
My God, I was an arrogant writer when I was younger. I knew my work was good, and I reacted to criticism the way flat-earthers respond to the inconvenient truth. I was hot stuff, they were wrong/moronic/picking on me, and the world would have to catch up with my genius sooner or later.