The Ghostwriter: One of My Favorite Identities
Funnily, despite writing so many for other people, 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.
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.
The Mythological Morning Routine
Before COVID, when I had a full-time job and the world seemed to be turning at a maniacal pace, we ran our house like an Amtrak train station. I could order hot lunch for my oldest, leaving me to feed him breakfast, make him a snack, and brush his teeth. Max and I flew out of the house like a somewhat well-oiled, if frantic machine.
Before COVID, when I had a full-time job and the world seemed to be turning at a maniacal pace, we ran our house like an Amtrak train station. I could order hot lunch for my oldest, leaving me to feed him breakfast, make him a snack, and brush his teeth—other than that, I had to only make myself look presentable while my husband and youngest lolled around a bit before pre-school. Max and I flew out of the house like a somewhat well-oiled, if frantic machine. I answered emails at stop-lights, Max chastised me from the backseat, and I rarely lingered past the bell before I darted off to the office. What a strange life in retrospect; now, I wake up to very few “real” emails and a litany of promotional spam. I don’t surreptitiously check for texts in my pocket when I’m supposed to be paying attention to the other important parts of life. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m still addicted to tech, but there’s no flare of cortisol when I push the home screen.) And now, when it comes to the mornings, all bets are off as we try to maximize our minutes in bed. We learned it from the endless months of virtual school in pajamas, when Max carried his bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats to the “Morning Meeting” Zoom happening in his bedroom. Leaving the house—particularly before 9am—feels a bit like a chore.
While I historically didn’t get enough of it, I’ve never been confused about needing a lot of sleep. When I continually dip into the 6’s and even the 7’s, I not only get grumpy, but I tend to compensate with extra coffee, which in turns flares my propensity to hyperventilate. Not the breathing-into-a-paper-bag type of hyperventilation, but the chronic kind, where it feels like you can’t take a full or deep breath without yawning. This in turn creates the feeling of panic. In reality, your lungs are over-full, you have plenty of oxygen, but that’s not how it feels. It’s like living with a partially inflated balloon in your chest. It’s awful and exhausting; a self-perpetuating cycle. To manage this, my morning routine has a lot to do with sticking with some sort of nighttime routine, which effectively involved getting into bed right after the kids so I don’t get sucked into the vortex of Netflix, or the dishwasher. (I’ve also come to discover that I’m a poor sleeper and a mouth breather, which all contribute to my breathing disorder…more on that to come.)
Obviously, I sleep better if I’m not over-caffeinated and I don’t bring a glass of wine to bed with me. But, well, that’s hard. I roll out of the house with Max in some variation of sweats and Patagonia (noting that that was my mother’s uniform in my youth, ahem)—my hair looking like a rogue toupé (see above). I’m dreading losing the mask because it spares me from putting on concealer. The lunches, which I make by hand in the absence of any other option, are a disaster and largely uneaten. We’re all just doing the best we can and there is joy in the sloppiness.
Max and I have a ritual where we stop for coffee and a treat on our way to school. This ritual is really for me because I’m addicted to oat milk lattes because how are they so foamy and delicious? I also like this step because it means that I’m required to put on a bra since I’ll actually have to get out of the car, and this makes me feel like slightly less of a slob. Plus, I know Max eats the treat, which allays some of my anxiety that he is going to go hungry because aforementioned packed lunch doesn’t appeal.
I love this time with Max in the morning. He plies me with questions that I absolutely cannot answer without Google—What’s ulcerative colitis? How much cyanide is in a typical cherry stone? Can you get Salmonella from touching bird poop?—and he entertains me with his newfound fascination with ‘80s music. (It comes for them all.) When I get home from drop-off, sometimes my four-year-old is still sleeping. His preschool starts at 9am and it’s literally 500ft from our house, but he’s been known to sleep through most of it.
Post-goop, I’ve been writing my book, researching my book, prepping for the launch of my podcast this Fall, sitting on a board, and doing some consulting. This sounds like a lot, but most of it is quiet, solo work, and so I find that I still have an odd amount of calls for someone who no longer fully exists in the corporate world. Depending on the insistence of L.A.’s newly surging morning traffic, this means that when I get back, I’m either sliding behind my computer right as a meeting starts, or I have a chance to shower and “dress.” If it’s the former, I throw on a turtleneck sweater and my glasses and try to look like a “writer” in partial chaos; otherwise it’s a button-up and jeans, which I immediately tear off as soon as I’m free. I am not someone who will be burning my yoga pants and Entireworld sweats post-COVID.
I used to wonder how moms who were full-time at home filled their days while kids were at school; I wonder no more. I have no idea where the time goes, but I can promise that you can actually get very, very little done between drop-off and pick-up. I say this as someone who has historically been meticulous about time management, an uber-productive robot if you were to ask anyone on my team. But the hours vanish. There is more coffee to brew, plants to water, books to catalogue and sort, doctor’s appointments to schedule and confirm. Walks—on a good day—to take.
There’s been nothing routine about this year; it’s been rough, certainly, but it’s also been an invitation to re-imagine the rigor with which I ran at least the first parts of my day. I rarely deviated unless I was out of the town (often one or two days a week), or had a work breakfast before the office. And here’s the odd part: Yes, I struggle to get much of anything done in the middle of the day, but I also find that I’m not any less productive than I was when I was helping to run a company. This is odd to me, and I’m still trying to figure it out, since I know that I did “a lot.” I find now, though, that I’m managing to do more. I’m just more disheveled. As the world re-opens, and we reimagine how we work, there are some things I will never do again, like bend my life to fit my career, or forego any extra minutes of sleep.
How to Read More Books
I grew up in the woods in Montana and my brother (a book editor) and mother are both voracious readers, so it was just the thing that we did as a family. The way we spent time, noses buried in books (see above). We also didn’t have cable (it legit didn’t extend to our dirt road) so it was the primary form of entertainment besides nature.
So, I read a lot. This is a fact (though I have friends on Goodreads who are on pace to cream me). For a mom of two small boys, who is writing a book, consulting, and until recently, the owner of a more than full-time job, I do pack in a lot of pages. I don’t have any official tricks (you can see Tim Ferris for that), nor do I know if I qualify as an official speed-reader, but I do prioritize reading over…every other “fun” activity. I grew up in the woods in Montana and my brother (a book editor) and mother are both voracious readers, so it was just the thing that we did as a family. The way we spent time, noses buried in books (see above). We also didn’t have cable (it legit didn’t extend to our dirt road) so it was the primary form of entertainment besides nature. Here, some tips if you’re looking to log more pages. (If you want to see some of my favorite books, I have a Bookshop page.)
Always pack a book.
My mom hates the word “bored.” It makes her irate. As a kid, whenever we expressed boredom, she would respond that it wasn’t her job to keep us entertained. It went something like: “Life is boring, get used to it.” And honestly, she’s not wrong. I always, always have at least one book. I like physical books so I can thumb over pages and make notes, which means I also always have a pen. I get most of my reading done in the margins of my day—parked while waiting to pick up my oldest from school, when I’m standing over the dinner stirring dinner. Sometimes I read in grocery store lines. As a child, I read while walking down the street. I read the cereal box, shampoo bottles in the shower, every billboard. I’ll even put a book in my bag when I’m meeting a friend for drinks or dinner because you never know when someone will be running late. The reality is that most books are about 250 pages. You can finish a book in twenty-five 10-15 minute slots, which actually goes fast. Trust.Read before bed.
My husband and I have diametrically opposed taste in TV and movies. This is fantastic, actually. Sometimes we’ll agree on something we want to binge together, but most of the time, he’ll pick a “film” based on the paltriness of its Rotten Tomatoes reviews. (Seriously, the lower it goes, the more likely he is to PAY TO RENT it.) He watches, I read, and then we try to go to sleep at the same time.Take notes.
This doesn’t really hold for novels, which I unfortunately don’t get to read as much. For non-fiction, I mark my favorite passages, tab the page, and then when I’m done, I spend a couple of hours (yep!) typing up all of my favorite passages and then filing them away. That way, I can revisit books later—key if I’m interviewing them for the podcast—and quickly reorient myself with everything I read. Because I know I’m going to circle back, I don’t get too overly fixated on committing passages to memory.Make/keep a list.
If you’re remotely Type A this can be pretty rallying and really feed that need to be productive. You can make an annual pledge on Goodreads (and also document books you want to read for those moments when you’re browsing in bookstores and need inspiration) or I used to just keep long-hand lists. And then I would come up with challenges, like reading “The Best Novels of the 20th Century,” etc. Hey, a little extra pressure works. (Throughout my life, I’ve also noted that I will read pretty compulsively for a month or so and then need to take a few weeks off—note your natural rhythms and then go with them.)Give up.
Psyche! My mom told me recently that she’s finally mastered the art of giving up on books she’s not enjoying by page 50 or so. I don’t have that capacity at this point. I HAVE to finish what I start.
I also made a video on Instagram about reading: