One book—a book slightly over 85,000 words—written and edited. I followed it up with another of similar length, a third and longer one, and then the fourth: “my” magnum opus at just under 125,000 words.
I’m tired. Some days—after relentless planning, revisions, and refinements—I’m writing for over eight hours. Word after word, paragraph after paragraph, the book unfolds. I want to look away from my computer screen. The eye strain is killing me.
Then, it’s finally complete. My magnum opus.
Except it’s not really mine. That’s what really makes it strange. Just over 400,000 words (yes, the 340,000 figure you might see advertised on my homepage is a bit modest) and in someone else’s voice. One client, four books. Those words will never carry my name, and I’ll never even mention my name in the same room as those books.
Why? Because that’s my job. It’s the stark reality I faced when I first tried to share what I did with interested clients. “Can you show me a sample?” they ask.
“Well…no.” That would have been my answer several years ago, because all my best work—the work that truly shows what I can do—is already owned by someone else. But I love it—and, for what it’s worth, I benefit from this work, too. Writing over 400,000 words in someone else's voice has taught me invaluable things about writing.
Lesson 1: What voice really is
Maybe that’s the most important lesson I’ve learned. Voice isn’t just vocabulary. It’s not just thinking to yourself—well, my favorite author likes to capitalize words he shouldn’t, I should do that. Because that doesn’t capture voice.
When I study the voice of one of my clients, I quickly notice there’s so much more to it. Why they say what they say. How they go about it. How long their paragraphs are. Whether or not they prefer descriptive, tonal, and visual explanations and worldbuilding, or short, concise, punchy action beats.
Writing isn’t a “one suit fits all” art. I’m calling it art, because it really is—but it’s a subjective art. And, objectively speaking, every person you’ve ever met has an incredibly unique voice that only they write in. Whether it's a novel, a founder's LinkedIn presence, or a best-selling self-help book, the principle is identical…down to the atom.
Sure, we share the same vocabulary, but vocabulary is only one piece of it. What a person avoids saying, what tangents they follow, even the reason they give their characters traumatic backstories—it all makes up their voice.
Lesson 2: Consistency isn’t fun (but it’s required)
I don’t think I’m magically “more” driven, disciplined, or talented than anyone else. What I am, however, is motivated to finish a project once I’ve started it. That see-it-through mentality is what actually gives me the drive when it comes to projects like this.
When my client (we’ll call him John) approaches me for another book, I don’t stop and think “Oh no, not again.” Because I already know—and love—writing in his voice. When it comes to a 400,000-word project, the consistency isn’t just in typing every day for months.
It’s also keeping that voice consistent on every page, every chapter, and every book across a series. I’m not just deciding about “Would this character say that?”
I’m also deciding, “Would my client write this character saying that?” And that’s a completely separate question that you need to answer before you decide whether or not the character can say it. To do that—truly do that, not just rough it out—you need to actually understand how the person you’re supposed to be writing as thinks, and then formulate that into the structure of an entire book.
Lesson 3: Invisible is good, actually
Have you ever watched a magician’s disappearing act, and thought to yourself, “Wow, this guy is talented!” I have. And at the very least, you know what I’m talking about. But when an author does it, the reaction is completely different.
Why? After writing over 400,000 words using someone else’s voice, I’ve realized that writing invisibly, as I do, actually comes with benefits. And I’m not just giving you some “it’s the art of the craft” BS. That would be lazy.
When you actually strip away your own habits and ego, you stop writing to ‘sound smart’ and start writing to serve the reader instead. And when you focus on serving the reader and delivering up a killer product, you can also encapsulate the voice of your client better.
It’s really that simple.
I’ve met ghostwriters with an ego.
They’re not good ghostwriters.
It’s not even because their writing is bad—usually, it’s as good as mine is. But the ego is the silent, structural killer, because it worms its way into every sentence they write, every chapter they edit, and every outline they critique.
As a ghostwriter, my goal is NEVER to replace my client’s voice. Frankly, I think ghostwriters who have that goal have fundamentally misunderstood the job. Nobody is hiring me to “write a good book” that I want to write (even though I have plenty of ideas).
When my clients hire me, it’s to write in their voice…so that’s what I do.
Lesson 4: So what is success?
Seriously, what is it? That’s what I had to learn—and re-define—during my seven-plus years as a ghostwriter. One client’s brief had a careful note to keep flowery language to a minimum, and keep romance out of her book. “Focus solely on the action,” she said.
And so I did.
Turns out, when I sent over the book, she thought it was fantastic…but she also wanted more romance. Now, would I personally disagree with that decision?
Maybe you’ve had a similar experience. Your ghostwriter holds up a finger and says, “Well, actually, you’re writing a book in a genre where action should be the main focus, not romance. Let’s steer clear of that.”
Except I don’t. Because that would ruin everything—from their voice, to their brand, to their own creative ideas.
It’s all about what you bring to the table while I do the writing: creativity and value. Creativity and value aren't sterile—they're fluid, and they work with the author, not against them.
So instead of chastising her, I work with her. I put my head down, immerse myself in her (and her main character’s) world, and I figure out how to add the romance she’s looking for without ruining the action she loves. We end up deciding to condense one of the more repetitive, action-building beats for one that expands the romance sub-plot, and it fits in perfectly.
And I’ll say it: it turned out better than it would have been. It’s more unique. More her flavor. And readers can tell when a book is a passion project.
It sounds like I’m being a “yes-man.” I don’t see it that way. When it comes to creative projects, the result is as much your client as it is you…oftentimes, moreso.
That’s how I know I was successful. When, after I close out another successful project, my client messages me and tells me they read the book and could picture themselves writing it.
Finale: Whose book is it?
Let’s make this clear: if I, as a ghostwriter, ever pretend that the book is mine, I’ve already failed. The goal is never to make it sound like I wrote a book for you. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. (I won’t tell.)
But the paramount goal is to remain authentic and deliver writing that is confidently yours. Not mine. If I can do that, then I close out a project, and I’m satisfied with what I’ve done.
At the end of the day, and after months and months of writing 400,000 words (and counting) for one client, I can say I seriously learned something: It’s not my magnum opus. It’s his magnum opus.
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