Knocking Out the Equivalent Lazy B-sides
Given that Global Gangland led to some serious death and maiming threats, I was made to promise I would never write a true crime book again. What will I be doing later this week in-between looking after my Nanna and fighting the maddening bureaucracy the social services? Writing a true crime book.
I can claim that I have not broken my oath, as I have not undertaken to author another work. I am merely ghostwriting some material for an established name in the genre. Aside from irritating a couple of my contacts at the Yard, there should be no danger involved in bashing out a few thousand words on recent notable crimes. It should just be hackwork, especially given the insane deadline in which I have to deliver the material.
However, my bloody professional pride kicks in with every gig I undertake. Instead of looking at it as merely a job, only undertaken because I need some money for help cover the recent funeral costs, as soon as said yes I actually began to care. Now I will fuss and worry about trying to write in the style of the author who name will be on the cover so that readers will not notice any jarring change. Instead of just banging out the required word count on time, my head is full of trying to write the best roundup of crime in 2006 in print.
Will the established name I am pretending to be actually care what I do in his name? Possibly not. Like a boy band member whose vocals are laid on in some backstreet South London studio by an unknown singer, he is too busy in Barbados to be troubled about the minor cogs in the machine that produces his income and reputation.
Despite the fact it is going to make life much harder over the next few days, there is bit of me that refuses to let just be a hack. It seems as if I am incapable of knocking out the equivalent of lazy b-sides. If I had been a musician I would have made a bloody useless session player.
I can claim that I have not broken my oath, as I have not undertaken to author another work. I am merely ghostwriting some material for an established name in the genre. Aside from irritating a couple of my contacts at the Yard, there should be no danger involved in bashing out a few thousand words on recent notable crimes. It should just be hackwork, especially given the insane deadline in which I have to deliver the material.
However, my bloody professional pride kicks in with every gig I undertake. Instead of looking at it as merely a job, only undertaken because I need some money for help cover the recent funeral costs, as soon as said yes I actually began to care. Now I will fuss and worry about trying to write in the style of the author who name will be on the cover so that readers will not notice any jarring change. Instead of just banging out the required word count on time, my head is full of trying to write the best roundup of crime in 2006 in print.
Will the established name I am pretending to be actually care what I do in his name? Possibly not. Like a boy band member whose vocals are laid on in some backstreet South London studio by an unknown singer, he is too busy in Barbados to be troubled about the minor cogs in the machine that produces his income and reputation.
Despite the fact it is going to make life much harder over the next few days, there is bit of me that refuses to let just be a hack. It seems as if I am incapable of knocking out the equivalent of lazy b-sides. If I had been a musician I would have made a bloody useless session player.
Labels: Ghostwriting, True crime
4 Comments:
Caring could be the sign of a true wordsmith you know. Not to be taken lightly.
I used to have a psychotic boss who used to scream at me: "I’m the fucking wordsmith!” with alarming frequency, so I would never dare think of myself in those terms. However, I think I am probably deluded enough to start thinking of myself as a writer as opposed to a jaded old hack.
C'mon, is it Nigel West? Nah, he does Cold War stuff, doesn't he.
I know how you feel tho, i do the same thing at work all the time. I swear that i'll just do the work and move on; yet, the minute i start, i become this nearly insane tunnel-visioned perfectionist and can't let it go till it's perfect.
You can't change what you are.
I could not ghost write for Nigel West for several reasons, not merely because he is merely a pseudonym for former Conservative MP Rupert Allason. One of the reasons I could never ghost for him is due to the legal action he brought over ghostwriting a book and spectacularly lost (the judge in the case called him: “a profoundly dishonest man” and “one of the most dishonest witnesses I have ever seen”). Another reason would be his obnoxious court case against the comedy show Have I Got News For You when they refered to him as a “conniving little shit”.
I just hope that what I am is a writer rather than a hack though I am not totally convinced
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