Margaret Langstaff writes about books and the book business for several national periodicals.

The haunting story of an invisible ghost

A writerly friend from Nova Scotia sent me a newsy Christmas letter that I thought other book nuts might appreciate. Herewith I quote in part:

In the last year I joined the pale and insubstantial ranks of Ghostwriters and Book Doctors. Publishers sent me two sort-of manuscripts that "needed work" before publication. Both were by public figures, and in one case the publisher had invested a lot of money in the rights to what he hoped would be a sales sensation.

The compensation I received for my labors was fair. The publishers were in a tight spot if they were going to meet their deadlines. The titles were already in their catalogues and their sales people around the country were peddling them to bookstores and distributors of every description. Ad budgets were set, publicity tours booked with media.

You can imagine my perspiration and agitation when the FedEx truck pulled up with the raw materials. The clock was ticking. In each case I had six to eight weeks to transform the protoplasm of a life story into something that walked and talked. Unlike God, who does this routinely, this would be hard for me and I would remain anonymous.

A finite corridor of time stretched before me in which I would work 24/7 to make the notable subject's life and voice my own. I would suppress my personal history and value judgments in order to infuse shape, form and meaning into the loosely assembled facts of a very important person's life.

Mind you, the process is a delicate one. All my reserves of empathy and tact were called upon. Drafts of rewrites go back to author and publisher for comment and approval. Professional standards and reputations are at stake, not to mention the author's feelings and the publisher's financial investment. Diplomacy and discretion are required at every turn. Somewhere in the interplay of agendas and taste considerations, a final draft is forged.

Everyone tries to be very nice because no one wants to test the question, "Who has the last word?" No, we don't want to go there. (Because, the truth is, according to the standard contract, either author or publisher can unilaterally back out if they cannot agree on an acceptable manuscript. Then everybody'd be sunk, including me.) Somehow, through a miracle of compromise and deference, the task is completed. Everyone finally lets go of the manuscript, not completely happy with it, but satisfied one has done all one can under the circumstances. It's now turned over to the copy editor and then to the book designer and typesetter.

In a month or so it will be birthed as a "book" and you will be able to read about it in publications such as BookPage and The New York Times. You will see ads for it in magazines and maybe on TV. The author's voice will eddy forth from your car radio and discuss something the ghost knows as intimately as the back of her hand. He will mention something from a section you are sure you meant to cut, maybe did cut, but through last minute finagling with the publisher he was able to get it back into the manuscript. For a second you will fume, sure that the book has been ruined as a result. Then you get over it and turn into the grocery store parking lot thinking, "fish or chicken for dinner?"

Well, I always wondered how this worked. Good ghosts remain invisible to the reader, my friend says, so she asked me not to mention her name.