I Was a Ghost
Since deciding that I was going to pursue a writing career, I envisioned what my first paid writing job would be. It was going to be glamorous. I was going to write short stories for the New Yorker. Very Amanda Seyfried in Letters to Juliet (adorable movie if you haven’t watched it). Or possibly, my work on Coffee House Writers would be discovered and I would get a publishing deal. And then the Netflix series based on my novel would air the following year and I would be flown to LA for the red carpet premiere. Just like super realistic expectations… I hope that sarcasm came across.
Hundreds, and I do mean hundreds, of applications were sent out into the world. For months I drowned in an ocean of rejections. But almost worst than the rejections were the ghosts. The ones that never answered. A writing job began to seem impossible. No one wanted me. I wasn’t good enough. I was doomed to just go back to another soul crushing job.
People always tell you, “never give up. Chase your dreams,” and all that sort of positive stuff. It was all well-meaning. But it doesn’t always help. I’m here to let you know that sometimes, you need to feel that despair. Living in that space of constant positivity can feel counterfeit. I wanted to tell those well-meaning people where they could go and how they could get there. But, that was hurt talking. I’d just keep all that to myself. Bottled up, deep inside. Yay, healthy coping mechanisms!
At some point, one of those applications came back. A yes. The hallelujah chorus exploded around me. Someone wanted me! It was a story app called AnyStories. Good news: it was for fiction writing. Bad news: it was romance. Like steamy, explicit, circa 2007 lemony FanFiction romance. I’d never written romance before. My niche is fantasy. I love angsty lead characters, large worlds, and magic. Now I had to figure out how to mesh what I do with this new genre. But there was another catch. It was a ghostwriting position.
For those that don’t know, a ghostwriter is someone who does not get named for their work. Generally. You may sometimes see a book or article that has the author’s name and then it’ll say, “with” or “as told to”. That person is the ghostwriter. But more often than not, a ghostwriter is never named. Because the work isn’t their original work.
So, I had finally gotten my first paid writing position. And I couldn’t tell anyone about it. It was bittersweet. I had finally achieved my dream. But, I had to keep it quiet. No one could know the premise of the story. The title, the plot, none of it. I hared it. But it was a paid position for writing fiction. Guess you can’t have everything. So I took the job. Here is how it worked: An “editor” was assigned to me and they would send over an outline for what they wanted for the week. I would then make that outline, that idea come to life. It was interesting.
More interesting was the fact that I loved it. And surprise: I was good at it. Writing romance was so much fun! I fell in love with the characters and the story. I loved reading the comments left behind by the readers. The good and the bad. If you don’t acquire a few haters along the way, then you aren’t doing it right, you know? But the comments, getting them and beginning to know what strangers thought of my writing was amazing. People you know, people that love you feel they have some sort of obligation to tell you how fabulous you are. Most of the people in my life haven’t read a single word of my writing, but will tell me I’m a great writer. What I think they’re remarking on is me. It’s what they think of me, and my passion for writing than my actual work. And that’s okay… but it’s not what I need. I know how fabulous I am (insert imaginary hair flip here).
It wasn’t easy. The experience was bumpy, and there were lots of wrinkles that needed to be ironed out. The editors wanted ten chapters a week. And each chapter needed to be 1,500 words long. I. Did. Not. Exist. Between the ghostwriting contract and my job at my aerial circus studio (more on that another time), I did not have a life. For months I lived at the studio or on my couch in front of my laptop. It wasn’t the glamorous life of a writer I envisioned. But, I still loved it. Every week, I hustled and stressed to get the chapters out. The characters took over my life. For months and months, they were all I could think about.
And then it ended. I submitted the last chapters of the story and the voices quieted. My first paid writing job was done. And while I can’t tell anyone the name of the story, the plot, the characters, or anything… I can tell you that it reached number two on the app’s best selling list. At this moment it has 1.1 MILLION views. A story I wrote. My writing. People paid money to read my work. But they’ll never know it was me. I’m the Cyrano de Bergerac of this story. Whispering the words to the better looking alternative who gets to take all the credit for my fantabulous swag. I should be angry. But I’m not. If anything, I feel more fire to get my own writing further into the world. And who knows? Maybe my own romance novel may hit the shelves some day.