The Ghostwriter, Publisher, and the Star

THE GHOSTWRITER, THE PUBLISHER, AND THE STAR

The Ghostwriter—Carla

I looked down at the pile of paper, painted with red slashes and question marks.

I don’t get paid enough for this! I thought—not for the first time.

By just quickly thumbing through the pages, I could see there was more red ink than black type. This job was turning into a nightmare compared to the other ghostwriting jobs I’d done. Apparently, The Client—who shall remain nameless because of the NDA I signed—changed his mind—a lot—about how his life had actually unfolded. Especially during the developmental editing stage where we tried to tie all the stories together. He called or texted every fifteen minutes to either add another anecdote, or play up some mundane event into the biggest, best, baddest of all time. But right now we were in the the line editing stage, and The Client had no time for me. He had the audacity to tell me it was boring, so consequently he was always too busy to go over the changes. It was extremely frustrating. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to get the book done when the subject was incommunicado!

I suspected that he didn’t even do his own editing. There were a number of different handwriting styles I assumed came from three, maybe four different people. And, seriously, I had a hard time reading most of what was scrawled on the paper. Plus there was a giant neon green PostIt note stuck to the front:

You need to do better. I need this by next Thursday, or I have to give back the advance. No advance for me, no pay for you. ~ The Client

I texted The Client.

Carla: Hey, it’s me. I just received your revisions. I think that we need to talk—not text—talk. Face-to-face. I can come to you. Or over the phone. Or FaceTime. Your choice. Get back to me.

I sent the message and waited. The Client, or TC as I have come to call him, was notoriously flakey when it came to communication. His assistant, Wanda, always said he was super busy, and didn’t have the time to communication with me. He had people for that, i.e., Wanda. The jury was out on whether Wanda actually gave TC any of his messages.

I needed to talk to him ASAP. We were on a deadline, and it was fast approaching. I needed confirmation about the facts of hislife. In the beginning, we’d had a number of face-to-face meetings, but they were still not the greatest. Because of his “high” life he was a bit a fuzzy on some of the details and tended to exaggerate his achievements. And apparently I was not stimulating enough and he got bored. We’d be talking about some aspect of his life—his very own life—and he’d just wander away. Or start to play his guitar—not an acoustic guitar, but an electric guitar with the amp on eleven. Or he’d start drinking. Or drugging. Or making out with the girl of the hour.

I was fine with the exaggerations. No problem here. My name would never appear anywhere near the book, so accuracy was between TC and his fans. That was the beauty of being a ghostwriter—not my monkey, not my circus. The other stuff, though … it was like trying to herd cats.

But looking at the scope of the current revisions, I wasn’t sure that this was the job for me. My work was better than all the red ink implied I knew trying to get this story to print was going to be hard. Rock stars tend to operate outside the norm, and TC thrived on chaos. Plus that PostIt was just rude. If he had problems, he should have contacted me, not threatened me. Good thing my fee was seventy-five percent up front, the last twenty-five percent upon acceptance of the manuscript by the publisher. And I had a contract. If TC broke my contract, my NDA became null and void. So, there was that.

Ding!

I looked down at my screen. It was Wanda replying for my request for an audience with his greatness. I opened the text.

Wanda: TC is unable to speak or meet with you. He is far too busy. Please direct any inquiries to me, and I can follow up with him, if need be.

Wanda! I was not a fan. For one thing, she truly believed her poop don’t stink. She considered me far below her in status. I do not share her rarefied air, so she deems me unworthy. Because I know that she handles TC’s work phone—a big rock’n’roll god can’t be expected to monitor his own communications—I wasn’t even sure she told TC about my most recent text. That would be just like her to pull that stupid power play.

Carla: Okay, thanks Wanda. Can you please tell TC that I quit. I will pass on all my research to the next ghostwriter. Let me know where to send the materials.

Ding!

Wanda: You can’t quit! You signed a contract!

Carla: I did. And so did TC. Clause 14.a.3 states that either party can terminate the contract if the other party does not make themselves available for the purpose of writing the book. Check it out. It’s right there in black and white. TC has not made himself available to discuss the changes to the manuscript. The number and scope of the revisions is ludicrous and untenable by Thursday. So, I quit.

Wanda: TC has not seen the manuscript. Those are not his revisions.

I figured as much.

Carla: Whose are they?

Wanda: The team’s.

I was pretty sure “the team” was Wanda, Bjorn, his trainer, and Sonja, the dog walker.

Carla: And the threatening PostIt note?

Wanda: Again, the team’s.

Ah, so it was a power play. Got it!

Carla: Well, the team is going to have to break it to TC that I’m out.

I closed the message app, and put my phone on silent.

TC’s memoir had been promising—at the beginning. Everyone knew him and his band. They’d been around forever, and had legions of fans—a ready-made audience for the book. But he had a reputation as a bit of a stereotype—trashed hotel rooms, groupies galore, hard partying. You know, sex and drugs and rock’n’roll. I knew that going in, but I figured I would be able to handle him. How hard could it be? He wanted the book as much as I wanted to write it. Now I see that I should have listened to myself. But the money was good, and I wouldn’t be starting my next contract for about eight months, so the job was doable.

I’d written for other musicians before TC, but they weren’t rock gods (TC’s definition, not mine). And I expected a certain amount of ego with each of my jobs. I write for famous people who want to get their stories out. They are famous. I understand that. But TC’s fairly significant ego, coupled with his super-short attention span, made the writing problematic and difficult.

Now, I have to contact my agent, and TC’s publisher to tell them I was no longer on the job. I picked up my phone.

The Publisher—Oscar

I ended the call with a sigh. I knew getting a book out of The One Whose Name I Dare Not Speak was going to be hard. I just didn’t know how hard.

Rock’n’rollers were a breed unto themselves! And The One was no exception. Because he was considered the bad boy of rock’n’roll, rules didn’t apply to him. He was notoriously late for performances, usually high or drunk. He changed women as often as he changed his underwear. But man, he could play! When his agent, Teddie, had approached me, I’d been skeptical, but The One was a big name, and his book was sure to sell millions. And my commission would be healthy. Or it would have been healthy, if there was actually going to be a book.

I’d just gotten a call from Carla Delacroix. She’d quit, and wanted to know where to send her notes. Technically, while she’d done the research and complied the information, it was owned by The One. But because he was so unreliable, we’d decided that I should keep the manuscript and research. But I’d asked her to hold off for a few days before sending it to me so that I had a change to talk to The One, and maybe fix the problem. Which was harder than it should be. His territorial pit bull, assistant Wanda, never let anyone see or talk to him unless she felt it was worth his time.

I called, and, of course, got Wanda. She matter of factly told me that The One was too busy to speak with me.

I sighed. “Well, Wanda, tell him, that if he doesn’t call me back in the next half an hour, he will have to return his two million dollar advance. And, lawyers will be involved, because he’s in breach of contract.”

I could hear Wanda’s intake of breath. “There’s no need to threaten, Oscar. I will have The One call you.” She disconnected the call—no goodbye, not even a snippy retort, just dead air.

I sighed. I did a lot of sighing when I had to deal with The One.

The Author—Rock God

“What the fuck were you thinking Wanda?” I could not believe that she was blowing up my life! Who the hell did she think she was! “Two million dollars is a fuck of a lot of money to screw with, Wanda!”

I paced the room.

“I just did what you told me to do! I looked after things, like you said to,” she whined.

“Holy shit, Wanda didn’t you think that I might need to talk to the person who’s writing a book about me? About my life? What the hell do you know about my life? We’ve know each other for what? Ten minutes. You don’t know shit about me!” I needed a drink. “Get me a Red Bull Vodka,” I barked.

I watched as Wanda wordlessly scampered over to the bar, and started to mix my drink.

“Fuck it! Just give me the bottle.”

She handed it to me, and I took a swig—a nice long swig.

“I can’t believe that you fucked up my life this way.” I stared hard at her. She was crying. I hated it when chicks cry. “You don’t have two million bucks, so you’ve got to fix this.”

I took my bottle and headed to my studio. Maybe some music would cheer me up. Probably not, but I did’t want to watch Wanda crying and snotting all over the place.

Twenty minutes later she knocked on the door. “Oscar said you have to deal with it. He just wants a finished manuscript. He said he’d give you an extra month to get it ready, but you’ve got to talk to Carla and apologize.”

“Apologize! Are you out of your fucking mind? I am a Rock God, and I apologize to no one.”

Just then my work phone chimed. God I hated that sound! Wanda answered it and handed it to me.

Oscar stared right in. “You need to make this right! Carla Delacroix is the best ghostwriter in the business. You need her to finish your book, or give me two million bucks back, plus interest. And we’ll sue your ass. Got it?”

“Fuck you, Oscar. You can’t tell me what to do! I’m a Rock God! And Rock Gods ” bow to no man. Got it?”

“Don’t screw around, and don’t be an asshole. Got it?”

And he ended the call. I hated that fucker! He’d hung up on me! No one hangs up on me.

“Fuck you!” I screamed and hurled the phone against the wall, shattering it in a million pieces. “Try calling me now, asshole!”

I picked up the bottle and took another swig. Assholes! I was surrounded by incompetent assholes! I stalked out to the garage and jumped into my Maybach Exelero, and sped out of the driveway. Technically I didn’t have a driver’s licence, but so what? What are the cops gonna do? They already had my licence. And if they impounded the car, I’d get another one. Who cares? I got the money.

I sped through neighbourhoods, not thinking about where I was going. Then I was in a neighbourhood that I’d recognized. I pulled up into the driveway. I think this was the house—I’d been pretty wasted the last time I’d been here. If it was the place, I really needed a little bit of chemical assistance. I dug into my pockets and pulled out my vial of cocaine. I tapped a line on my hand and snorted. Instant high.

“Things go better with coke,” I mumbled out loud.

I got out and walked up to the door. I looked around. Yeah, I was pretty sure I was at the right place. I knocked on the door.

The Ghostwriter—Carla

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, Oscar said I needed to talk to you.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “About what?” I asked, knowing exactly why TC was here.

“My book. I need you to finish writing my book.”

“Why should I do that?” I asked, truly interested in his answer.

“I don’t know. Oscar said you need to finish it.”

I raised an eyebrow, “I need to finish it?” I could feel my anger starting to rise. “I need to finish it?” I repeated. “I tried to finish it! But you acted like a spoiled toddler and got bored. You wasted everybody’s time. Then …” I turned to walk to the kitchen where the revision copy was. TC started to follow me. I whirled on him. “You are not invited in.” I shut the front door. When I returned TC was still standing on the porch, looking like a petulant child. I handed him the manuscript.

“Then this dog’s breakfast was delivered today, along with a threatening note.” I pointed at the sticky tab.

“I didn’t fuckin’ write that,” he said, defensively, almost slapping the stack out of my hand.

“I know. Wanda told me it was her and her ‘team’.”

TC snorted. “Wanda doesn’t have a fuckin’ team. She’s got the dog walker and my trainer. When I get home, I’m firing all their asses.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So, what about this?” I said holding the stack of paper. “I can’t work like this. You need to take responsibility for this disaster.”

“Fine.” He was pissed. “Are you goin’ to write the friggin’ book or not?”

I said nothing, I just stared at him.

He started to look uncomfortable. “I’ll double your fee,” he said, waiting for my response.

“It’s not the money,” I said, even though the money would be nice. “It’s about treating me with respect. And you doing the job you agreed to do.”

“Fuuuuccckkk!” he moaned. “Would it help if I kissed your ass?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said, “it would not help. But it would help if you made yourself available when I need you.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll try.”

I held out my hand. We shook. “And I’ll take the money.”