I, Writer … # 15
I’d answered an advert online.
Ghost Writer required. Hours to suit. Reasonable rates.
Excellent conditions. A job for life.
So, there I was, in a cemetery, leaning against a tombstone taking dictation from Dearly Departed. We’d worked out a series of alphabetic taps and scrapes. Not Morse code exactly but near enough. I won’t bore you with the details at the moment. Suffice to say, it worked. Dearly Departed had an eternity and I had time on my hands.
My spirited friend, who I shall now refer to as DD, had always wanted to write a novel. It’s never too late in my opinion. And besides, literature from the Great Beyond is always so classy.
The opening sentence had been very tricky …
I am damned.
Good. Quite good. A little bit more perhaps …
I am so damned.
Yes. Quite punchy. Very modern. Really down with the lit kids. But it sounds just a bit dark and final …
I am so damned sexy.
And that was it. Game on. Once we’d gotten into the literary flow of things, there was no stopping us.
A best seller on at least two planes of existence is not to be sniffed at. The royalties were unpredictable. But, when Death acts as both your literary agent and editor-in-chief, it’s best not to argue too much. And there are other things worse than death.
Anyway, once the word was spread throughout several Hereafters, my services were in great demand and I had more work than I could handle.
OK. Back to the online advert. I had been in a bit of a fix …