The Ghostwriter: One of My Favorite Identities

Until six months ago, I always entered “editor” on the occupation line on forms. This was accurate: I spent a decade in magazines as an editor, though I did a fair amount of writing. At goop, I still line-edited, though less over the years, as I transitioned into an executive role and managed teams, co-hosted the goop podcast, etc. But since the age of 24 or 25, I’ve also ghostwritten or co-written books—11 or 12, including many bestsellers. I’ve written in lots of verticals: style and beauty how-to’s, interior books, memoir, business, for many notable people. I love this work and will likely always do it, in part because it’s fascinating to tap into other peoples’ worlds, to put on their voices, to access their audiences. And there’s no ego involved in scaffolding and structuring the thoughts of others. These are their books and ideas, not mine.

Ironically, I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer—it’s been an identity second to editing, third to managing teams and the like. Funnily, despite writing so many, I never thought I had a book in me, or this is what I would tell my agent every time she papered a deal for me to put voice to someone else’s project. The reality is that I didn’t have faith that anyone would care what I had to say, unless it came through someone else’s megaphone. This was obviously a cop-out, but is it not so much more effective to borrow the platforms of others, those who inherently—in this celebrity and social-economy—have a much bigger reach? It never occurred to me to build my own; I am a slow sell to self-promotion, I don’t know how to do it with ease. I am also an introvert.

At goop, we didn’t use bylines, the style that I inherited when I joined in 2013/2014, and certainly my preference. Part of the power of the brand was its unified front and voice—I became primarily responsible for the latter. It wasn’t until I co-hosted the podcast that I stepped out, and let my name and face be more known—it’s when I realized that it could be safe to be seen, that there’s a coziness and intimacy that comes to relating to the people who listen in, or read. And so finally, after another (relatively frustrating) ghostwriting gig, I decided that perhaps I did have a book in me that didn’t need the cover of someone’s fame.

Now, I’m no longer at goop. I’m no longer an editor or a C-level executive; I’m a writer. It’s funny to make that identity shift in my ‘40s. It feels presumptuous, vaguely embarrassing—who do I think I am?—but it’s the only title now that’s accurate. I can’t hide behind CCO, editor. I have great reverence for writers, having grown up mainlining their words, letting the pages of books define and delineate my world. And yes, I’ve written a ton of books, I’ve added to the “canon” in my own way, but never with my own name on the front. My own, unmediated thoughts and ideas.

I just finished the first draft of this book, which will be out in October ‘22 from Dial Press, which is part of Penguin Random House. It’s a “Shitty First Draft,” the affectionate term coined by Anne Lamott, which is when you let loose on the page without getting overly fixated on the form, the perfection of each sentence. So I have many miles left to go as I get it into shape for submission this September/October—it’s bloated by 20,000 words, for example. Only two people have read it so far: Rob (husband) and Ben (brother, who happens to be a book editor), which is in of itself quite odd, as I’m used to reliable and consistent feedback from publishing so many articles over the years. Plus, ghostwriting inherently requires collaboration. I have never worked on something for this long by myself, wondering if it will be resonant. It’s like being in that liminal space while painting, or even baking or cooking, when it’s unclear whether what you’re working on will always look terrible, or whether it will emerge into something worthwhile, maybe even great. It’s a bridge you have to cross; the chasm scary, the boards rickety.

As anyone who has written a book can attest, the process is long, which means that if you’re contemplating attempting one, you need to be willing to devote yourself to the topic for years. In non-fiction, there’s the proposal, which is often more work than the book itself, as in order to write a good one you need to understand, more or less, what you intend to put on the page and then give it voice. If you’re “lucky” enough to skip the proposal process and go straight to a deal, be conscious that the intensive outlining work still needs to happen—writing non-fiction without a comprehensive outline can be disastrous in my experience, leading to meandering and over-writing and then the need to hack your copy into parts and retro-fit it to make it coherent. As a reader, you’re probably conscious of books that launched out the gate without any defined destination and then found a way to kind of get there—the experience is perceptible, frustrating. The stitching sometimes obvious.

I’m also an outline fanatic because it offers the guardrails that are required for a Shitty First Draft—in the back of your mind, you have the confidence that you can’t go too far astray. You might need to go back in with better examples, more concrete details, a wider aperture or perspective (or tighter), but your discursive asides are still on the map. You aren’t in Belgium after setting the GPS for Bermuda.

While I once helped crash in a book for someone in two months, it typically takes me four to six months to write a book. For my own, I have a year, a luxurious spool of time, of which I’ve already consumed nine months. For these coming drafts, I will sharpen, winnow, cut, cut, cut. And hopefully add. Before handing it to my editor for her thoughts, and a wider ring of readers. You never want to waste fresh eyes. Eventually, it goes into copy-editing and it is designed and set into a book. Titles and covers are discussed, revealed. And then the advanced reader copies (ARCs) go out into the world, typically nine-months in advance of publication, so booksellers, reviewers, et al have time to sit with the book, to read and assess it and help define and plot its likelihood of success.

It is a strange limbo, one I haven’t yet fully walked alone yet—the year of writing, the year after submission when I wait to see whether the book will have a life. The period before and immediately after publication, when it’s time to (hopefully) promote it. These expanses of space will give me ample time to get comfortable with my new identity, as a writer, particularly as I move away from conference rooms and cap tables and budget exercises. May we never meet again—or, at least, not for a minute.