Ghosts

I've accumulated a team of ghostwriters. Each of them are unaware that the others exist, that they each have competitors vying for my confidence.

So far, they've staggered their visits, managing to show up one at a time. That's the way I want it.

I've taken long walks with one of them, our thoughts so intimately entwined that we end up strolling arm-in-arm down my sun-streaked country lane, having endless discussions about our mutual ideas for plot and character development and dialogue.

She is like my literary twin, only she's so much more competent with words than I am. I trust her with my story. Flattery doesn't get her anywhere with me, for some reason, so she's stopped attempting it. She's all work, and when she's around, she pushes me to get it down on paper. And I do.

The other writers have been offered bits and pieces of my work, to see how they'll respond, to see if they can improve what I'm attempting--to see if, by any means, they can bail me out.

We sit on the porch, just me and one other at a time, hashing it over.

One is hyper-critical, and thinks theres not much she can bring to the table. She is of the hopeless sort. I don't invite her back, but she's shown up on a number of occassions without provocation.

One is new at this business, like I am. She is anxious to produce a body of work, to assemble a portfolio, even if my name ends up on the cover. She is eager from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning to help with my project, but I'm beginning to realize her enthusiasm and first successes may stem from something more like beginner's luck than true talent or developable skill. She tends not so much to want to write, as to have written.

If I must choose among them, I'll go with the first woman in my collection. After all, she's believed in me from the start.

Whenever we meet, she grabs a quick Iced Americano with four shots of decaf and one of caf, two Sweet-and-Lows, no water, lots of ice and room at the top for half-and-half, and joins me on the purple couch for some brainstorming.

If she doesn't exactly write the words for me, she at least points me in a good direction, smiles, and says something trite but wonderful like, "You can do it."

I've accumulated a team of ghostwriters, and honestly, they wouldn't get along well together at all. Most of them will have to go.

I open my eyes then, and it's just me alone in the room. The critic hasn't arrived yet, and the newby with her evident lack of experience will be a little late today. I hear a knock on the door, and it's the ghostwriter of my dreams, the one who believes in me, who knows I can do it.

I smile and let her in.

Posted by Katy on 08/11/03 at 07:21 AM

Fallible Comments...

I'm no writer, but as an ecclesial dreamer I have my "ghost-supporters", too. I know we live hundreds of miles apart but I think I know those three you are talking about...<br>James

-----
Posted by James Mills on 08/14/03 at 11:20 AM
We take whatever they'll give us, don't we? Some days, we can't afford to be too picky.
Posted by katy on 08/22/03 at 05:41 PM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Ghosts I've accumulated a team of ghostwriters. Each of them are unaware that the others exist, that they each have competitors vying for my confidence. So far, they've staggered their visits, managing to show up one at a time. That's the way I want it. I've taken long walks with one of them, our thoughts so intimately entwined that we end up strolling arm-in-arm down my sun-streaked country lane, having endless discussions about our mutual ideas for plot and character development and dialogue. She is like my literary twin, only she's so much more competent with words than I am. I trust her with my story. Flattery doesn't get her anywhere with me, for some reason, so she's stopped attempting it. She's all work, and when she's around, she pushes me to get it down on paper. And I do. The other writers have been offered bits and pieces of my work, to see how they'll respond, to see if they can improve what I'm attempting--to see if, by any means, they can bail me out. We sit on the porch, just me and one other at a time, hashing it over. One is hyper-critical, and thinks theres not much she can bring to the table. She is of the hopeless sort. I don't invite her back, but she's shown up on a number of occassions without provocation. One is new at this business, like I am. She is anxious to produce a body of work, to assemble a portfolio, even if my name ends up on the cover. She is eager from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning to help with my project, but I'm beginning to realize her enthusiasm and first successes may stem from something more like beginner's luck than true talent or developable skill. She tends not so much to want to write, as to have written. If I must choose among them, I'll go with the first woman in my collection. After all, she's believed in me from the start. Whenever we meet, she grabs a quick Iced Americano with four shots of decaf and one of caf, two Sweet-and-Lows, no water, lots of ice and room at the top for half-and-half, and joins me on the purple couch for some brainstorming. If she doesn't exactly write the words for me, she at least points me in a good direction, smiles, and says something trite but wonderful like, "You can do it." I've accumulated a team of ghostwriters, and honestly, they wouldn't get along well together at all. Most of them will have to go. I open my eyes then, and it's just me alone in the room. The critic hasn't arrived yet, and the newby with her evident lack of experience will be a little late today. I hear a knock on the door, and it's the ghostwriter of my dreams, the one who believes in me, who knows I can do it. I smile and let her in. Posted by Katy on 08/11/03 at 07:21 AM Fallible Comments... I'm no writer, but as an ecclesial dreamer I have my "ghost-supporters", too. I know we live hundreds of miles apart but I think I know those three you are talking about...<br>James ----- Posted by James Mills on 08/14/03 at 11:20 AM We take whatever they'll give us, don't we? Some days, we can't afford to be too picky. Posted by katy on 08/22/03 at 05:41 PM Page 1 of 1 pages Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: So We're Even Previous entry: The Next Thing You Know << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Ghosts

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri