GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 5

I still have no idea how Literary McAgent convinced Confused McManager to convince Mumbles McReality to cancel her trip to China and make herself available to me.  Maybe it involved giving up some of her commission.  Maybe it involved an expensive dinner and a bunch of drinks.  Maybe it involved a blow job.  I didn't know, and I didn't care (much).  I was just happy that what was shaping up to be an entirely impossible gig improved to only a slightly impossible gig.

Over the next four days, I managed to get eight hours of Mumbles on tape, which wasn't anything close to enough material for a book, but I suspect that even if I had five times that much, it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference, because the girl had nothing.  No insightful stories about her childhood, no cute anecdotes about her castmates, no response to the rumors that she was gay, no comment on my gentle probing about her drug use, and, worst of all, no concrete answer to my questions about where she scored her weed.  Since these tapes would yield me, at best, 30,000 words -- about 125-ish pages -- I was going to have to pull a book out of my ass.

So I did what any ghostwriter would've done: I went to the videotape.

I transcribed most every word that came out of her mouth on Your Reality Show of Shows, a painful endeavor, because Your Reality Show of Shows was the lamest reality show in the history of reality shows.  (I'm not saying that from a snobby perspective; I likes me some quality reality tube as much as the next girl.  I mean, without Top Chef, the world would be a bleaker place.)  Since Mumbles got kicked off the show only seven weeks in, there wasn't much transcribing to do.

There's no exciting ending to this little tale.  For the next two weeks, I wrote for 14-ish hours a day, somehow managing to complete a competent 60,000-word manuscript.  And when I say 60,000 words, I mean 60,000 words.  I couldn't have come up with another sentence if you put a bazooka to my boobs, but the editor was happy, and that was good enough for me.

It's possible that Mumbles read some of the first draft, but I'm certain she didn't make it through the whole thing, because after I emailed it over, she didn't give me one single editorial note, so the book that was eventually published to shitloads of derision was virtually the draft of the book that I turned in.  Not one of my finer pieces of work, but it kept the lights on for a few more months, so there's that.

The moral to our story is, if you find yourself crashing a book for a weeded-up pseudo-celebrity, well, don't.

Next: Ghosty McGhostwriter Meets the Angry, Angry, Angry Stand-Up Comic.

GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 4

I've been lucky enough to have two perfect clients.  That's a shitty batting average, but in ghostwritingland, you take what you can get.

The question is, what, to a ghostwriter, constitutes a perfect client?  For me, it's all about the Three P's, baby: Punctuality, preparedness, and positivity.  After years of doing this, it's gotten to the point that if I could only pick one P, it'd be the first one.

See, celebrities don't work under the same time constraints as you or me.  Like what time do you show up at work?  When you're supposed to, right?  Now in Ghosty world, a book equals work, and if we set a 10:00 meeting to prepare said book, I'm ready to go at 9:55, and blah blah blah, yak, yak, yak, you get the point.

When it came to being late for a meeting, my old pal Child McStar set the gold standard, if only because of her remarkable consistency.  She was committed to lateness.  She owned it.  You knew that if she said she'd be ready to go at 9:00 AM, she'd be ready to go at 9:00 PM.  It was inspirational.  Mumbles McReality wasn't in Child's league, but she represented nonetheless.

The previous day, Confused McManager sent me an email warning me that Mumbles was a late sleeper, and probably wouldn't be functional before noon, but he also promised that because of the urgency of the project -- i.e., two-ish weeks to complete 60,000 words -- she'd be ready to roll each morning at 9:00.

Yeah, not so much.

On the plus side, starting at 9:15-ish, Mumbles stayed in touch with me via Confused McManager, who was assigned the task of calling me every 15 minutes with an update that inevitably went like this: "She'll be ready in fifteen minutes.  Promise."

The morning of the first Mumbles/Ghosty interview session, I received seven of those communiques.  7 x 15 = late.  Really honking late.

Was it worth the wait?  Meh.  Aside from the fact that Mumbles mumbled, she wasn't particularly forthcoming.  Getting any useful information from her was like pulling teeth, or pushing rocks, or insert your own metaphor here.  After two hours of cajoling, I had enough material to write, I dunno, three pages.  Maybe two.

Mumbles ran out of energy -- she didn't have too far to go, really -- so we shut it down and set a time for the following morning.  Mumbles promised she'd be on time.  At least I think she did.  That's how I translated "Mrgllefwop gshvinktzoid bnbnanbn ssssssss."

After that waste of collective breath and anytime minutes, I called Literary McAgent.  "How'd it go, babe?" she asked.

I filled her in on the Great Nothingness that was our interview, then said, "You know Mumbles is going to China next week."

"It's my job to know, babe."

"Of course it is.  But did you actually know?"

"No."

"Yeah, she's leaving the country, and I have nothing, and if it keeps up like this, I'll have less than nothing, and she'll be gone, and I'll be screwed."  What I meant by I'll be screwed was that I would be blamed if the book wasn't completed on time.  Y'see, most publishers don't give a damn as to why a project isn't completed on time.  At the end of the day, they want a book delivered, and if it's not delivered, they blame the person who's supposed to do the actual delivering, that being the ghost, that being me.

Literary said, "Hold on a sec."

"But..."  And then, hold music.  Two minutes of listening to Kenny G. later, Literary clicked back on and said, "I talked to Confused McManager.  We're gonna Skype it."

I said, "Um, what?"

"Yeah, we're gonna Skype it.  She'll go to China, she'll do her thing, and she'll Skype you for the interviews.  Seriously, Ghosty, I'm a genius.  I amaze myself."

"Okay," I said, "Two problems.  One, how can we guarantee she'll make herself available?"

"We can't, babe.  That's part of the fun.  What's the other problem?"

"We'll be 12 hours apart.  She'll maybe be ready to talk at noon her time.  That'll be midnight my time."

"What's your point?"

"She's already made me wait on U.S. time.  If she makes me wait on China time, I'll be up all night."

"That's why we're paying you the big bucks, babe."

I said, "You're not paying me the big bucks."

"Yeah, I know.  That's just an expression."

"Literary, I don't know if I can do this."

"What, you don't want to say up past your bedtime?"

"Well, no, I don't, but I will if I have to.  But I don't know if I can stay up past my bedtime and write a book in two weeks."

"Oh, yeah, right, you actually have to write the book, don't you?"

"Um, yeah," I said.  "I actually have to write the book."

"Okay, babe," Literary said, "let me see what I can do."

Next: Literary McAgent sees what she can do, which isn't much.

GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 3

In an ideal world, the ghostwriter and the ghostwrite-ee are in the same city for the preparation of their book.  A face-to-face interview setting lends to more honesty, and lessens the chance of crossed signals.  (Facial expressions are a beautiful thing.)  Thing is, it's almost always impossible to get the two of us physically together for any significant amount of time, because celebrities, be them A-list or Z-list, are generally on the go.  Some celebs really, really, really care about their project, and make it a point to be in one place for the interview process, which usually makes for a solid, cohesive book.  Others could care less.

Mumbles McReality was one of the latter.

Since this was a crash book, we needed to get started immediately, so I scheduled my first phoner with Mumbles as soon as it was possible.  We were going to start at 9:00 AM on, say, a Tuesday, and even though I wasn't convinced Mumbles would make a 9:00 call, I dutifully set my alarm.

Monday night at 11:30 -- well after the Larry David-mandated cut-off time -- I get a call from Confused McManager, "Here's the thing," he says.  "Mumbles' mother made this deal for Mumbles to go to China.  They're going to cut the ribbon at a mall, or something."

I assumed that "cutting the ribbon" was a metaphor, but I was kind of irked about having been woken up, so I didn't ask for specifics, as I wanted to go back to beddy-bye.  "When're they leaving?"

"Thursday."

"When're they coming back?"

"Three weeks."  The book was due in two weeks.

"Oh.  Does Mrs. McReality know I can't write a book based on two days of interviews?"

"Yeah.  She doesn't care.  She wants Mumbles to get paid.  Like now."

On one hand, I could understand.  Mumbles' advance wasn't all that, and she wouldn't see any royalties until she earned back her advance, which might or might not happen (probably not), and if it did happen (which it probably wouldn't), it would take months for the publisher to get around to paying royalties.  It's hard to refuse immediate cash.

On the other hand, they made, y'know, a commitment.

I said, "It'll be impossible."

He said, "Yeah.  I know.  I'll call Literary McAgent tomorrow.  Maybe she'll have an idea."

She did.


Next: In which Mumbles is wayyyyyyyyyyy late for our first interview, and even later for the second one, and Literary McAgent comes up with a not-so-brilliant solution.

GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 4

When you've been in the publishing biz for a while, you meet a whole flock of literary agents.  Some are exceptional, and want you to not just survive as a writer, but to thrive, to live a good life.  Most are solid individuals who, at the very least, want to land you gigs, because the more gigs you get, the more money everybody gets.  But there are a small handful who are all about themselves, who have egos the size of a David Foster Wallace book (is that the best metaphor ever, or what?), who are in the game because they think repping books -- especially celebrity books -- is a road to fame (or infamy), fortune, and earning daddy's respect.

Literary McAgent Jr. was such an animal.

I never actually met Literary face-to-face -- she was in New York and I wasn't -- but I was told that she was a short, short woman, and some have theorized that her pseudo-bigger-than-life demeanor stems from a Napoleon complex.  She fashions herself as a combination of contemporary cool and old school brash, although when it comes to the literary world, I'm not convinced that she has any concept of old school.  For that matter, I'm not convinced that she even reads any of her client's books...but she does, however, read the proposals, because proposals are short, and they could lead to both immediate gratification, and, y'know, money.

Naturally, what with its questionable allegations and sordid tales of debauchery, she loved Child McStar's proposal.

"Babe, this is awesome!"  She called everybody "Babe."

I pointed out, "No way this crap gets in the finished book.  No legal department in their right mind would let this through."

"Who gives a poop, Babe?  This'll totally get us an auction."  (For you non-publishing-industry-types, an auction comes about when multiple publishers want to buy a project.  Sometimes the literary agent will ask for a final bid by a certain date, at which point, she and the client will make their decision, while other times, the agent will conduct a round robin auction.  Less scrupulous agents will fake an auction, telling editors that there have already been several bids on a project, when in reality, it's languishing in submission purgatory.)  Literary continued: "That legal poop isn't our problem."

It totally was our problem, but I didn't want to get into it with her, because, well, who had the time?  I then asked the more pertinent question: "Did you work out my fee with Manager McBlabbermouth?"

There is no set template as to how a ghostwriter gets paid.  For a ghost, the most common payment structure is a small fee for the book proposal and a split of the advance, with the client getting the higher portion of the split.  (The split is generally in the 60/40 area, but you might also see 70/30, or 75/25.)  In a perfect world, the ghostwriter will receive a fair fee for the proposal, then they and the client will split the advance 50/50.  Sometimes the proposal fee will be recoupable -- an advance against the advance, if you will -- which means if the ghostwriter gets paid $5.00 for the proposal, then the project is sold for $50.00, and there's an agreed upon 50/50 split, the ghost gets $20.00, with $5.00 recoupable fee having been deducted from their portion of the advance.  In other instances, the ghostwriter will do the proposal on spec, which sucks, but sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do; on the other hand, if you don't get a proposal fee, the client is more likely to agree to the 50/50 split.  Sometimes there's a flat fee for both the proposal and the book, which is a gamble on both sides, because if the book gets a crap advance, the client might feel screwed, and if the book gets a zillion dollar advance, the ghost might feel screwed.  We should unionize.

Anyhow, if you're a penurious celeb, Literary McAgent Jr. was the rep for you, because she didn't fight for her ghosts' salaries.  If the celeb said, "I'm only going to pay my collaborator a dollar, and they can take it or leave it," Literary would say, "No problem, Babe."  Thing is, ghostwriting work isn't always plentiful, and there's always the chance that a lousy job could lead to a good one, so most ghosts -- unless they're at the level of a David Ritz or a Jeffrey Zaslow -- will grab what they can, ignoring that A) they're getting paid shit, and B) the client is a nutbag.

This was the case here.

Literary said, "Yeah.  We worked out the sheckles."

"And?"

"And they're paying you [insert lowball offer here]."

"That's it?"

"Babe, I had to fight to get you that.  But this is gonna totally be a best-seller."

Yes, Child McStar was all but a non-entity, but if her allegations were true, this book would indeed sell a helluva lot of copies.  Plus I needed the work.  So I said yes.

Bad idea.

Next: In which we find a publisher, and the real fun begins.