I’m a little light on “company information” in the traditional sense because I am not a company, in the traditional sense. No CEO. No typists or secretaries. No interns or
junior writers. There is simply… me. I am the company. Me. What I offer is a genuine,
one-on-one professional writing relationship with my clients, something I have been
doing for over twenty years.
During that time, I have written more than two hundred books (both fiction and non-
fiction), a like number of short stories, along with many, many scripts, speeches, and
presentations. My writing has covered the spectrum of tone and content — political
diatribes and more carefully-reasoned articles, biographies, tales that deserved to be told
and those best left unspoken. I have written stories of abuse and of rapture. Westerns.
Romances. Science fiction. I have written books for gynecologists, cardiologists, and
podiatrists. I have written fictionalized histories and historical fictions, books for rabbis,
priests, and Baptist ministers. I have written enough pop psychology and self-help books to hang out my own shingle…
You might wonder how it happened that I got involved in this particular line of work. Well, like most things of interest, not by traveling the straight and narrow, I can tell you that…
Me, I was wandering the aisles of the local library, doing research for a professional paper I was drafting for a friend (okay, I agree. Not ethical. But she was in danger of losing her job, poor thing) when I struck up a conversation with the reference librarian. The librarian quickly discerned that my research was not for me and he inquired if I might be interested in becoming a ghostwriter.
The blood drained from my cheeks. My heart started to pound and my palms grew
sweaty. I glanced over my shoulder, fearful that our conversation (which I took to be
more than vaguely nefarious) might be overheard.
“I… uh.. I..” (I’m not often rendered speechless.)
“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” (Don’t you hate it when perfectly intelligent
reference librarians speak in clichés?)
I mumbled something about a cat allergy and, by the way, interested in anything having to do with writing.
“Thought so,” he said with a self-satisfied smugness that I found particularly unnerving. “I can always tell.” Then he took down my particulars and said that someone would be getting in touch with me soon enough.
I left the library weak in the knees and troubled in the spirit. What had I gone and
gotten myself into this time? Why, oh why had I given the librarian my name and phone number? What was to become of me?
I took a circuitous route home, wary of every raincoated, fedora-wearing lug who
appeared in every door way and from behind every lamp post. “Hey, kid,” each called
out in that gravely stage whisper possessed only by the best character actors, “you wanna ghostwrite?”
I snuck in the back door of my home and made sure every door was double-locked. I
closed the windows and drew down the blinds. I put some water on the stove to boil. I
was finally beginning to relax when the phone rang. Once, twice. A third time. With my hand a-trembling, I reached for it. “Hello?”
“I understand you’re interested in becoming a ghostwriter…”
That very day, I received my first assignment and became a ghostwriter.