Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Substitute Ghostwriter

Who am I? I am the substitute for the ghostwriters' ghostwriter. I am the mere echo of a shadow of a cipher. If the ground floor of a building represents an ordinary person who has a public identity, I am two floors below the basement, a denizen of the third level of namelessness. I am so nonexistent that you could find, among the slowly decaying pages of ancient novels that decorate dusty bookshelves in forgotten libraries, fictional characters more substantial than I. Truly, I Am a Non-Person.

And yet I have to eat.

That's the terrible thing about being a writer, and they somehow forget to tell you this one detail in school. No matter how skilled you are, being a writer doesn't spare you from the ordinary necessities of life, such as job, home, clothing, and especially food. You can have all the hyperbole in the world, but after a day or two you would gladly trade it all for a sandwich.

And that is how you find me here, occupying this well-worn chair at the Ghostwritery. (As actors are wont to say, "Work is work!") Our esteemed Host is away, slapping Humbar's scrawny, ill-fed manuscript into shape in a marathon writing session worthy of a video montage soundtracked by some prefab 1980s synth-pop-rock track, by some low-budget Duran Duran knockoff perhaps, and in his absence someone has to mind this shop, the Ghostwritery, in case another desperate customer wanders in through the unmarked alley door.

It hardly seems worth paying me to occupy this space just on the chance that a customer will show up. "Why don't you just put a sign on the door: Out to Lunch -- Back in Five Days?" I asked. No sooner had I said those words than I knew the answer. But my inner realization came full two seconds too late, and I was consigned to listen to the entire five-minute lecture on the subject: With a sign, any sign, on the door, it would no longer be an unmarked door, which would utterly ruin the establishment's carefully-thought-out branding scheme.

Needless to say, I held my tongue on my followup suggestion, which was a grand neon sign above the door announcing "The Ghostwritery" in cheerfully sinister luminous script. I was prepared to argue that the proposed sign could flicker occasionally and be embellished with rust and flaking paint in order to fit into the old, uncared-for visual theme. But I kept that thought to myself. I'm not paid for design ideas. I'm paid to sit in this chair and assist the next customer who walks through the door. And given the volume of traffic at the Ghostwritery this morning, I am in effect being paid for doing nothing, which ironically is roughly the converse of my usual working experience as a writer.

Anyhow, so here I am, in this chair, and I know I tend to ramble and go off on tangents, because that's the kind of substitute ghostwriter that I am, but while sitting here I discovered the most amazing and confounding thing! The Ghostwritery now has a blog! You can call me gobsmacked!! It's like we've skipped directly from the 19th century to the 21st century! Maybe there's hope for that neon-sign proposal after all. It would look tres retro-cool.

Reading through the Ghostwritery's new blog, I was a tad dismayed to find that our dear El Scribo Spirito -- by the way, did I mention that among my many talents is the ability to write in several languages, sometimes simultaneously? -- has been turning down ghostwriting jobs left and right.

Too proud to write a college paper? Business correspondence doesn't pay well enough?? It's nice to know this operation is doing so well that you can pick and choose customers at your whim! How about a raise, then?

(Note my adroit use of sarcasm -- another of my exemplary writing skills. I know perfectly well that business is hit-or-miss, and that the main reason this room looks like it hasn't been redecorated since the 1940s is that, yes, much of the furniture has been sitting here in exactly the same place since the 1940s. It does achieve a highly sincere untouched-by-time look. But I'm sure we could maintain that timeless look while adding some more modern and fashionable touches. Just give me a modest budget and a day at Ikea! I know, this is only an idle fantasy. It will never happen. And I'm doing a lengthy tangent inside parenthesis, which my editor-self so disapproves of. --Did I mention that I can also serve, when the need arises, as a meticulous, hard-nosed, detail-oriented copy editor? I sometimes daydream of opening (on the brighter side of this dark alley) my own specialty shop, which I would call The Copyeditory. It would definitely have a neon sign, and the word Welcome on the door...)

But enough of this idle blog banter. I sense a customer in the alley outside, apprehensively, pensively, slowly approaching our unmarked door. (Did I mention that I have a sixth sense for... oh, never mind, I'll tell you later. -- Bleh! I can't believe I'm ending with a parenthetical!)

1 comment:

Unknown said...

You better be careful, young man. I may not be there, but I can still see you.