I lose count of how many words I write per day. But that doesn’t matter much because not a single word I write is ever mine. As a ghostwriter, whatever I write will never have my name on it.
Now stuck in traffic, sitting in the backseat of an Uber cab, I think: “I’m a ghostwriter, therefore I don’t exist.” Then I remember what Roland Barthes once wrote: “The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the author.”
It’s raining and I’m hungry. The cars are not moving. I take out my android and start scrolling down my Facebook homepage. I think of posting something, but I change my mind quickly. (I’m very picky about what I post on Social Media. In general, my posts are very neutral and without ‘character’. I try not to be very opinionated because I don’t want people to think I’m an idiot, or an asshole, or a pessimist… Yea, that’s me.)
“Just drop me off here,” I say suddenly.
“What? Are you sure?” The Uber driver turns to ask me, “it’s raining.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
I go out in the rain and walk towards nowhere. I eventually end up in a coffee shop and have my dinner there.
I am a ghostwriter. They see me, but they don’t know my name.