It’s a curious thing, ghost-writing.
A profession both intimate and invisible. We exist in the margins, in the shadows, at the back of the room and away from the cameras.
Our job is to disappear—so that someone else can be heard, clearly and truthfully, often for the first time.
To many, ghost-writing remains a bit of a mystery. The name itself conjures ideas of secrecy or artifice. But there is nothing deceitful about it. In fact, at its heart, ghost-writing is one of the most human forms of writing there is. It’s a craft rooted not just in skill or structure, but in empathy. To ghostwrite well, you don’t just need to understand grammar and tone. You need to understand people—what makes them move, break, fight, love, believe, and carry on.
Because ghost-writing is about far more than words.
It’s about voice.
Their voice. Not mine.
Never mine.
That’s the art of it. The challenge. And the privilege.
When I work with someone, I’m not just shaping chapters—I’m stepping into their shoes. I spend time listening deeply: to how they speak, where they pause, what makes them laugh and being with them when they break down and cry…
…and yes, that happens.
These are not distractions. These are the heartbeat of the work. Their voice isn’t just a way of talking; it’s a fingerprint. My job is to replicate it, not imitate it. To let it breathe on the page in such a way that anyone reading will hear them, not me.
It takes time, and trust. Often, we begin with long conversations—sometimes joyous, sometimes harrowing. People share with me their brightest memories and their darkest hours. They talk about love, success, rage, loss, guilt, ambition, pride. These are not just facts; they’re feelings.
Energies.
They crackle with life, and my responsibility is to honour them with honesty and care.
When someone entrusts me with their story, they are often handing over something sacred. Sometimes it’s a book they’ve always wanted to write, but never knew how. Sometimes it’s a life they’ve barely had time to reflect on, let alone make sense of. Sometimes it’s pain that has sat in silence for years, now ready to be shaped into something healing or helpful. And sometimes, it’s about setting the record straight—making sure their truth isn’t lost beneath someone else’s version of it.
I don’t take any of that lightly.
Every ghostwritten project is a kind of collaboration—but not in the way most people imagine. Yes, we work together, but my job is not to steer.
It’s to follow.
I’m there to pick up the rhythm of their voice, the cadence of their thought, the emotional undercurrents they sometimes don’t even realise they’re revealing. I tune into the quiet notes—what’s left unsaid, what’s hinted at, what’s fiercely protected—and I find a way to translate all of it into something meaningful, authentic, and real.
It’s not about embellishment. I don’t write fairy tales. I write the truth—as messy, complex, vulnerable and powerful as it really is. And in that truth, there genuinely is beauty. A raw, unfiltered beauty that no amount of literary polish can fake.
That’s the human element. And it’s what I love most about this work.
I’ve written for CEOs, professional sportsmen and women, survivors, musicians, entrepreneurs and ‘ordinary’ (in their eyes, not mine) people who’ve lived extraordinary lives in quiet ways. Each time, the task is the same: to bring their voice, their soul, to the surface. To let the love they’ve felt, the rage they’ve held, the passion that drives them—all of it—live and breathe in ink.
I often say that I’m not writing for them, I’m writing as them.
There’s a difference.
It’s why my process is slow, careful, often immersive. I don’t just want the facts of their life—I want to feel their world as they’ve lived it.
The moments that made them.
The ones that nearly broke them.
The ones they’re proud of.
And the ones they still carry quietly, even now.
Because readers know. They can tell when something is real. And they can tell when it’s not.
So, yes, ghost-writing is about structure, style, and narrative arc. It’s about chapter lengths, pacing, and knowing when to stop a sentence just short of saying too much. But beyond all that, it’s about connection.
Trust.
Humanity.
It’s about capturing a voice so perfectly that someone can pick up their own book, turn the first page, and say with quiet pride: This is me.
And in that moment, I smile.
Because even though you usually won’t see my name on the cover, I was there—in every beat, breath and line.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
