One reason I love being a ghostwriter is because I get to hear such amazing stories. But sometimes it can be frustrating. My work does not belong to me. The stories I tell belong to someone else. And my clients are not always as bold or as “out there” as I am. Sometimes they tell me their stories and ideas, some of them so brilliantly bold, some of them shining examples of courage – but with some politically incorrect or “not nice” facets. It’s often these not-nice facets that make the stories real and alive and worth writing about.

Some of my clients like hiding behind hedges, and I like to tear the hedges down, branch by thorny branch. Oh, how painful it is when I have written a passage of such poetic grace, such searing wisdom, that it nearly sings aloud from the page – and my client says, “Oh, I can’t say that – what will my mother think?” (Or her Aunt Grace, or her boss, or her husband, or her old boyfriend she hasn’t seen for thirty years.) “Can’t you put it another way?” she asks, by which she means without the truth in it.

So guess what? It’s her story, not mine, so out that passage goes, if I’m unable to convince her otherwise. And I’ll write a tepid version and mourn for those wild, outrageous, unused words.

But really, this is good for me.  It may not be good for the art, but it is good for me.  It reminds me that my opinion is not the only one that counts. My artistic goals are not always the goals of others. It’s not always about me.

In fact, the real in-your-face thorny truth is that it is never about me.  It’s good to be reminded of this sometimes.

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