I’m a little light on "company information" in the traditional sense because I am not a company (in the traditional sense). I am the company. Me. There is no CEO. No junior writers. No hierarchy. No typists or secretaries. There is simply... me. What I offer is a genuine, one-on-one professional writing relationship with my clients, something I have been doing for nearly twenty years. During that time, I have written going on 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 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 some research for a college paper I was writing for a friend (okay, that probably wasn’t ethical but she was in danger of flunking the class, poor thing) when I struck up a conversation with the reference librarian. The librarian quickly discerned that my research was for someone else 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 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 being allergic to cats and, by the way, interested in anything having to do with writing. He took down my name and phone number and said that someone he knew would be getting in touch with me soon enough. "Yes, yes. Good," he noted as he jotted down my information. 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? What was to become of me? I took a circuitous route home, wary of every raincoated, fedora-wearing lug who seemed to appear 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 the blinds. I boiled water for a cup of tea. I was finally beginning to relax when the phone rang. Once, twice. A third time. With 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. |
    
That very day, I received my first assignment and became a ghostwriter. |
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David Woolfe
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