It’s Friday night and you’re in a half-empty bar. You’ve scarfed down another apple martini in hopes of forgetting the stress of the week. You work in the city. Either LA or New York, but preferably New York since you watched way too much Sex and the City in your teens. You’re in your early 20s and miraculously work a much-coveted position. The only problem? Your boss. He’s in his 40s and he’s the biggest jerk you’ve met. Somehow, deep down, you’re intrigued. Just as you’re considering getting another drink, you smell that tantalizing cologne. Eros by Versace. You look to your left and see the overworked, smoldering eyes of your boss. A smirk immediately lifts his face. Suddenly, your secret desire matches his and you know the night will end deliciously.
Does that sound unrealistic? Or maybe like it’s off the page of a romance novel that makes your already-impossible standards skyrocket? Well, as a romance ghostwriter, I breathe delusion. When I began ghostwriting romance novels in 2017, I was a broke nineteen-year-old with a penchant for dating smokers. I was incredibly shy and couldn’t figure out if I wanted to put my film degree to use in the future or become the next Jane Austen. Clearly my expectations as a budding creative were exceptionally high. Ghostwriting thus came as a sneaky gateway into a future career of writing other people’s novels. I figured I might as well brush up on my writing since I had a few novels stirring in me. Admittedly, I had more confidence in hiding as both writer and young adult. This trait of preferred invisibility leaked into my personal life early on — I was shy, practically mute, and couldn’t even muster enough courage to excuse myself to the bathroom during class. Ghostwriting was the inevitable pipeline. Six years later, I’ve found myself still writing romance, talking much more, and no longer dating smokers.
Before I spin my tale of ghostwriting though, it’s important to know what ghostwriting novels actually is. The market is painfully heteronormative and dazzlingly white. I learned the hard way that opting to describe a female character having coils or brown skin is a death sentence. In my experience, clients are book nerds with a zest for traditional gender roles in relationships, and a desperation to break into the industry in hopes of becoming the next Nora Roberts. Sadly these exuberant “writers” lack the skill and patience of writing. In my opinion, the road to becoming a 5-star ghostwriter requires three main components: a concoction of hopeless-romantic-syndrome, a terrible love life, and a sprinkle of knowledge on crime novel description (I promise I’ll explain). I discovered in order to be considered for a writing gig, all you need is a decent pitch to clients and a writing sample. Given my nonexistent history as a working writer, I buffed up a 2000 word short story I originally wrote for a high school class and shamelessly passed it off as an opener for a novel. Apparently my high school prose was enough to get my foot in the door. I exclusively work on Upwork and Fiverr and the books range from 25,000 to 80,000 words. I like to call them “mindless reading” since they’re not super long reads with eclectic characters or mind-boggling plots that will send you into an existential crisis. For this reason, I can pump out 10,000 words a week and at least three books a month. As a writer with a preference for fantasy, my personal novel in the works has taken months just to plot and world-build. Ghostwriting is driven by speed. Client “authors” either don’t have the time to write or can’t write. This makes their understanding of the writing process limited, therefore, their timeline for completing a novel is short. An ideal match for a client is a writer who can take their “smoldering 30k romance novel” idea and churn out a decent book in under 4 weeks. Since I’m a writer who also likes to have enough groceries in my refrigerator to survive, I take what I can get. If I focus solely on the fact that I’m dangerously underpaid and work in such a niche market that my client options are miniscule, the joys of my profession get overlooked. So, before I get carried away by the woes of being a broke writer, allow me to glamor you with the beauty of ghostwriting.
The first novel I wrote included cringe-worthy love scenes with little depth. Ironically, the first few bits of romance I had were with guys I hated kissing and who made me feel like Lisa from Girl, Interrupted. However, it wasn’t until the second semester of my junior year that my writing got the spark it needed. For privacy concerns, we’ll call my spark F.C. After a spontaneous burger date, I finally experienced the high romance novels gave readers. I noticed everything — the brown highlights in his curls, his faded arm tattoo, the way his smile lines softened his face. I was enthralled. As a result, the 30k romance novel I wrote that semester dazzled. Every night as I sat at my tiny dorm room desk, I’d recall the tingle in my lower stomach when memories of my escapades with F.C. popped up: Him calling me gatita, the times we ate breakfast burritos on the floor as we watched reruns of The Office, the huge fish-tank by the window that housed a single goldfish. This secret formula of recalling memories is the foundation for the perfect romance novel. Sensations are key. Descriptions of memories must dig deeper than, “he was tall and hot”. Rather, you must physically transport yourself in front of this character. Here’s where my crime novel description comes in handy. In high school I read In Cold Blood, which I now regard as the best manual to learn stellar character and setting description. Truman Capote managed to write a gripping story that unraveled a grisly murder while keeping the reader occupied with fanciful narrations of character personalities strengthened by their physical descriptions. I took this and ran with it, making each novel I wrote as detailed as possible. Sure, a “mindless read” has predictable characters with similar looks; but where’s the fun in rattling off basic characteristics? It’s the reason why clients ask for an extremely descriptive example of the characters, sometimes going as far as requesting a picture. The last three years Tyler Hoechlin and Nina Dobrev have served me well.
When you pay attention to how your partner makes you feel, you’ll pick up on just how sacred sensuality is. These special bits aren’t necessarily physical attributes alone; it’s the roughness of their fingertips, the way their lips feel on your cheek, the sound of their breathing when they fall asleep. The moments are fleeting of course, so they get overpowered by the “act” of intimacy. In romance writing, a book is pointless if we skip to the physical act of sex. The reader needs buildup. The reader thirsts for the exact description of the male character’s eyes and how he might have a scar on his left cheek. The reader must know how the female character feels when the male character finally takes control and kisses her. Do his biceps flex? Is his touch rough or gentle? The wildness of the moment is sweetened by his helpless gaze as he admits (internally) that he’s fallen for her. Real life moves too fast to catch the perfect moments that a romance writer captures. Think back to a love interest you had in high school. Odds are, you either remember a fuzzy physical description and a few good moments. A novel takes that memory and paints a mural of his past, present, and future, all accompanied by his gorgeous cheekbones softened by dimples.
Attention to small details is what makes me proud to be a female writer, but it should also come as no surprise that romance readers are overwhelmingly female. When we’re telling our girlfriends about a new guy, we describe each fleeting moment from the time we first met to the last detail of the first kiss. I take pride in tiny details because it’s the bones of a story. As a hopeless romantic, I realized I carried a power. Sure, my delusion had me believing F.C. would be the love of my life and we’d move to Mexico to live on a farm. Yet, that same delusion opened the door to plenty of experiences that I cling to and occasionally sprinkle into my novels. For a romance writer, delusion is seeing the bits of beauty in small things, no matter how unrealistic. Every conversation with an attractive man is etched in my mind. I hold onto the moments like a collection of polaroids. When it comes time to remember said moments, it’s more than, “oh, he was cute and asked for my number”. Instead, a scene unfurls:
The day was windy, and I was partially over my last heartbreak. He approached hesitantly, his lips already twitching into a shy smile. His voice was soft, and his gaze melted me enough to make me forget about how much I wished I had brought a jacket. The sweetness of white fern misted the air, and the sun highlighted the bits of blond in his locs.
I find by over-romanticizing my less-than-satisfactory love life, I can at least practice for the craft that pays me. The power of imagination is thus a great literary tool. The bounty of imagination and a good taste in romance leads to hope. No matter how vile dating is, women need something to cling to in the cesspool called dating. In the real-world women in their early to mid 20s are riddled with “wyd” texts and constant ghosting from guys who give anxiety attacks more than orgasms. The infamous “spark” 2000s rom-coms promised us has fizzled to a zap of misery, followed by the occasional high from a match on dating apps. Hence why us romantics are hungry for hope-fueled romance books that end in love, a shotgun wedding, and me staying employed.
My own hope has manifested in a collection of tropes — enemies to lovers, forced proximity, secret pregnancy, brother’s best friend, and age-gap. The way my ghostwriting system works is clients need me to create a juicy tale using some or all of those lovely tropes. They’ll request for a steam level between 3 and 5, with 3 being slow-burn love with one sex scene, and 5 being full-on descriptive sex. I find the necessity for steam scenes to be a portal of release. For a lot of women, sex and viewing their own bodies as vessels of pleasure is complicated. This pushes the average woman to keep a safe distance from her own body when it comes to sex. From a young age we’re taught to keep our “private parts” shielded from our own curiosity. What follows is a crash and burn when the allure of sex and romance creeps in during college. Suddenly, our bodies must be hidden in dark bedrooms as we awkwardly fumble around with an equally inexperienced partner. The shame of the female form is an underlying theme in a lot of the ghostwritten novels I’ve created. Much against my will, the romance genre is dominated by the male gaze. Despite female readers being the audience, there’s still an overwhelming desire to be saved by fictional male characters. The female character may be “sassy and independent” in chapter one, but by time she’s fallen for the cold, brooding male character, she’s a damsel who’s in denial that her “petite yet curvy” body is attractive. While I’m in control of how my characters fall in love, I can’t protect them from the green Gatsby eyes of patriarchy. Not to mention, I can’t dream of adding a hint of diversity, as 95% of the novels I write are for white characters. The lack of autonomy in my own work has caused anguish and confusion. At my core, I’m a writer raised by Toni Morrison, sharpened by bell hooks, and my passions fueled by Zora Neale Hurston. Being a black female writer is a big part of my writing identity, and I have yet to showcase that in my ghostwritten work. In the depths of my imagination, a tiny fear that’s grown over the years has been yelling the blatant truth: my own ghostwritten, romance novels will never include me. The dark truth can suck the joy out of a steamy scene when a client requests I describe how pale and pink a female character’s “fun bits” are. Agony isn’t a strong enough word to describe my internal voice.
I still feel the freedom of my anonymity is tantalizing. I can masquerade the worst of my own experiences behind characters I craft from exes. I even have the ability to splinter bits and pieces of my complicated childhood into the backstory of the main characters. Anonymity has become my personal phantom mask — both mystique and alienating. I have nineteen contemporary romance novels under my belt, one of which I got a tiny writing credit. It’s fascinating to wipe my hands clean after several rewrites of a novel that I outlined and wrote from start to finish. This also is what makes it difficult.
In my sixth year of ghostwriting, I’ve faced the catch-22: I’m stuck in my phantom-mask-writing purgatory. Despite the years of critiques and reshaping my writing has undergone, I have nothing I can show for it. This only makes career introductions even more awkward. I tell people, “I’ve been writing romance novels for the past six years,” and their brows immediately wiggle into fascination. What follows is, “where can I read your work?” Gut-wrenching shame washes over me and I solemnly admit that I’m just a ghostwriter, therefore my greatest tropes and written soliloquies remain hidden behind another author’s name.
Like most writers, I wrestle with my craft. I agonize over if my work is good enough and if I wasted 3 ½ years in graduate school. However, my greatest fear is I’m not entirely sure if my authentic voice is equipped for my own book. This fear is quietly admitted. The one time I mentioned it to my mother, a long-time fan of my writing, she passed it off as insecurity, reminding me I’m just as good as Toni Morrison. As much as I admire the fierce loyalty of my mother’s hope in my writing career, the concern of success will forever haunt me. My career as an anonymous romancer has dug a hole. Over the years, I’ve gotten used to emulating the voice clients need. I’ve omitted my flowery language in certain scenes and sacrificed a female character’s freedom for a measly $25/ hour. Well, that is if the client is willing to pay that much. Yes, the worst of it all is that my wonderful skills have yet to fully support my rent. The topic of underpaid, starving writers is all too real. Back in 2012 when I wrote my first poorly written fantasy novel my sophomore year in high school, I dreamt of sleepless nights as I slumped over a laptop. Coincidentally, this dream from my younger self manifested into my mid-20s being a loop of writing until my fingertips are sore, barely scrambling enough for rent, and not having enough creative juices for my own work. As dire as this paragraph reads, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The other day on twitter I read through loads of tweets about the writer’s strike. It frightened me for obvious reasons, but it also filled me with pride. Writers are the artists of the world. When we want to remember what the days were like in the Victorian era, we look back to novels and written historical accounts. The same can be said for the writers of this era. Through the triumph of completing a first draft that took months, to being rejected by nearly every literary agent or magazine you submit to, writing ignites passion. Being a ghostwriter has encouraged me to romanticize every aspect of my life — Everything down to wearing my sneakers until they have holes in them. Why? Because there’s hope at the end of sorrow. The latest novel I wrote was about an aspiring writer working for a top literary agency in New York (projection? Maybe). Since this client requested a secret pregnancy trope, the female character found herself three months pregnant and living happily in her billionaire boss’s swanky mansion. The final conclusion to her happiness wasn’t the luxury life she acquired. It was the memories of her “starving” writer days. Just as I accepted it would take time to put out my personal work, I understood that I’d one day look fondly on the perseverance to romanticize my ghostwriting days.