Not a Ghost of a Chance

I have read with interest the posts from Tumblemoose about ghostwriting. Am I alone in thinking that ghostwriting is really odd? I don’t mean from the point of view of the person actually writing the material – it’s a paid job and that’s all you need to know – I mean from the point of view of the person who is asking another person to write words that they will take credit for.

Isn’t that strange? Would you ever ask another person to paint a picture that you later sign yourself? Or have someone build you a loft conversion then erect a placard stating that you carried out the work yourself? Or have some friends round for a dinner party and secretly have takeaway food delivered through your kitchen window which you insist you cooked yourself?

Of course ghostwriting has its place. Someone wants to tell the story of their terribly interesting life but lacks the time or writing skills to do so. Thus they employ a professional writer. However, that is called a biography and the book cover will carry the name of the real writer. That’s very different to someone claiming to have written their own autobiography that was actually written by someone else. That’s rather a contradiction in terms. Or cheating.

But the very worst type of ghostwriting happens when some so-called celebrity claims to have written a novel when in reality they can barely – as evidenced by their numerous TV appearances – string a coherent sentence together.

The most amusing/annoying example of this is the model Katie Price, commonly known as Jordan. She’s well-known in the U.K because she’s well-endowed (with falsies) in the chest department (and now with a Donald Duck top lip). She started out as a topless model and has, with some exceptionally astute management, become a very successful businesswoman. She has a perfume, which I suspect she didn’t mix herself, and a range of equestrian gear, which it’s possible someone else may have designed, and a hair-care electrical range, which I have a sneaking suspicion may also not be down to any electronics training on her part. What the hell, eh? Good luck to her.

But the books … Oh, Lordy Lord, the books. It is common knowledge that her two autobiographies, two novels, and many children’s books are all ghostwritten. So what is the bloody point in pretending? This is the woman who, when she was being filmed during a documentary series on her and her (now) ex-husband, tried to read from the label on a jar when attempting to cook something.

“What’s that …? Or… or… org… organo? Organo? I dunneven know what that is.”

It’s OREGANO, woman! ORE-FRICKIN-GANO! How is it possible to reach 32 years of age and not know a jar of oregano when it’s staring you in the face?

The documentary editors very cleverly (cruelly) went to her sitting behind a table in a bookshop signing copies of her latest novel. Yeah, right. Fanks for comin so I can sign my book wot I writ. A long queue snakes towards the table, full of silly young girls who think thick people can write novels, and dirty old men who don’t care if they can or can’t but just want to see huge breasts up close.

If you are lacking in grey matter, and everyone knows you are, isn’t it embarrassing to suggest that you are capable of writing a novel? Or does that duh-brainedness (I made that word up) make you unaware of even that glaring fact?

Personally, I would love to win the Monaco Grand Prix but I know I would die on the very first bend. However, I may start claiming that was me who raced to victory two weeks ago. You couldn’t see it was me because of the helmet. But it was. Honestly. They just spelled my name wrong. It’s not Mark Webber, it’s Mark Pepper.

Woohoo, I’m a racing driver. That was easy.