There’s a bottle of pills on my kitchen counter. The label says to give one to the cat twice daily. The label does not mention that my cat, a fifteen-pound tabby named Buttercup, would rather die than let this happen.
There’s also a manuscript on my desk. Three hundred pages that need to become a book. The client, a successful entrepreneur who built a logistics empire from nothing, would rather do almost anything than sit still for interviews.
I have been ghostwriting books for thirteen years. I have ghostwritten 54+ books for other people. I have also owned cats my entire life. Neither experience has prepared me for what I’m about to describe.
Day One: The Approach
The vet made it sound simple. “Just open his mouth and pop it in. For more, see business book ghostwriter. Cats are easy.”
I corner Buttercup in the hallway. For more, see from idea to finished book. He looks at me with an expression that suggests he knows exactly what I’m planning. I crouch down, speaking in the soothing voice I reserve for frightened animals and nervous clients. “Hey buddy. Just a quick thing. Won’t take a second.”
Buttercup bolts. He’s under the bed before I can blink.
🐾
Here’s what I’ve learned from cats and clients: both will resist you.Share on X
The client made it sound simple too. “I’ve got all my stories in my head. We just need to get them on paper.”
Our first interview is scheduled for Tuesday at 2 PM. At 1:45, his assistant calls. Something came up. Can we reschedule?
We reschedule for Thursday. On Thursday, he’s running twenty minutes late. When he finally joins the video call, he’s in his car, driving to another meeting.
“Let’s just do this quick,” he says. “What do you need from me?”
I need three hours of your undivided attention. I need you to tell me about your childhood, your failures, the moments that shaped you. I need you to sit still.
“Just a few questions to start,” I say. “Won’t take long.”
He takes another call before I finish my first question.
Day Three: The Strategy
I’ve done my research. The internet says to wrap the pill in a treat. Buttercup loves those little salmon-flavored things. I’ll hide the pill inside, and he’ll swallow it without knowing.
I prepare the treat carefully, tucking the pill deep inside. I present it to Buttercup with the confidence of a man who has solved an impossible problem.
He eats around the pill and spits it onto the floor. It sits there, wet and rejected, while he looks at me with something approaching contempt.
🐾
I’ve done my research on the client too. I read every interview he’s ever given. I watched his keynote speeches. I found articles from fifteen years ago when he was just starting out. I know his story better than he thinks I do.
Armed with this knowledge, I try a different approach. Instead of asking him to tell me about his life, I tell him what I already know and ask him to correct me.
“So you started the company in your garage with $2,000 and a used computer.”
“It was $1,800,” he says. “And the computer was borrowed.”
We’re talking. He’s engaged. For twenty minutes, I get the real stuff. The fear. The doubt. The moment he almost quit.
Then his phone buzzes. “I gotta take this.”
He doesn’t come back.
Day Five: The Escalation
The internet has more suggestions. Crush the pill into powder. Mix it with wet food. The cat won’t notice.
Buttercup notices.
He sniffs the bowl, looks at me, and walks away. He would rather starve than be deceived. I respect this, even as it infuriates me.
I try the direct approach. I grab him firmly, pry open his jaw, and shove the pill toward the back of his throat. The vet showed me how to do this. It should work.
Buttercup twists in a way that defies feline anatomy. He rakes his back claws down my forearm and launches himself across the room. The pill is somewhere on the floor. I’m bleeding.
🐾
The client has stopped responding to emails.
It’s been a week since our last interview. I need four more hours minimum to finish the research phase. I’ve sent three messages. Polite. Professional. Increasingly desperate.
I call his assistant. She’s sympathetic but firm. He’s traveling. He’s busy. He’ll get back to me when he can.
I consider the direct approach. Showing up at his office. Forcing the conversation. Making him understand that his book will not write itself.
Instead, I send a fourth email. This one includes the first chapter. It’s rough, built from the fragments I’ve gathered, but it’s something. Something he can see. Something that proves this project is real.
He responds within an hour. “This is good. Really good. When can we talk?”
Day Eight: The Breakthrough
I’ve accepted that Buttercup is smarter than me. Stronger than me. More stubborn than me. I cannot win this fight through force or deception.
I sit on the floor next to his food bowl. I don’t look at him. I don’t try to grab him. I just sit there, pill in hand, waiting.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Buttercup watches from across the room, suspicious but curious.
Twenty minutes. He approaches. Sniffs my hand. I stay still.
Twenty-five minutes. He’s eating from his bowl, three inches from me. I reach out slowly, stroke his back. He tenses but doesn’t run.
I keep petting him. My hand moves toward his head. He’s purring now, lost in the attention. I tilt his chin up, and in one smooth motion, I open his mouth and deposit the pill.
He swallows before he realizes what happened.
🐾
The client has stopped running.
Something shifted after he read that first chapter. He saw himself on the page, and something clicked. This wasn’t an obligation anymore. It was his story, coming to life.
Our next interview runs two hours. He cancels a meeting to keep talking. He tells me about his father, about the business that failed before this one succeeded, about the partner who betrayed him. The stuff he’s never told anyone.
I stop asking questions. I just listen. He keeps talking.
When we finally hang up, I have enough material for three chapters. More importantly, I have his trust.
Day Twelve: The Setback
Buttercup figured out my game.
The patient approach worked once. It won’t work again. The moment I sit on the floor near his bowl, he disappears. He knows what the stillness means now.
I’m back to square one. The pill bottle mocks me from the counter.
I try the towel method. Wrap the cat in a towel so he can’t scratch. Hold him firmly. Administer the pill.
The internet makes this look easy. The internet lies.
Buttercup becomes a furry tornado of rage. The towel provides zero protection. I end up with scratches on both arms and a cat who won’t come near me for the rest of the day.
🐾
The client loved the first three chapters. He hated chapter four.
“This doesn’t sound like me,” he says. “This sounds like a business book.”
He’s right. I got lazy. I fell back on generic language, the kind of stuff that fills airport bestsellers. I lost his voice.
“I’ll rewrite it,” I say.
I spend two days on the revision. I read his interviews out loud to get his rhythm back in my head. I delete every sentence that sounds like it could have been written for anyone else.
The second draft is better. He still doesn’t love it. We go back and forth for a week, adjusting phrases, cutting sections, adding stories I’d left out.
Chapter four takes longer than the first three combined.
Day Eighteen: The Acceptance
I call the vet. I explain my failures in detail. She listens without judgment.
“Have you tried the pill gun?” she asks.
I have not tried the pill gun. I did not know pill guns existed. She explains: it’s a plastic syringe-like device that lets you deposit the pill at the back of the cat’s throat without putting your fingers in harm’s way.
I drive to the pet store. I buy the pill gun. I feel like a man who has discovered fire.
That evening, I approach Buttercup with my new weapon. He’s skeptical but not alarmed. The device is unfamiliar, non-threatening. I pet him for a moment, load the pill, open his mouth, and press the plunger.
He swallows. Looks at me with mild annoyance. Walks away.
It worked. It actually worked.
🐾
The client calls me on a Sunday.
“I’ve been thinking about the ending,” he says. “I don’t want it to be about success. I want it to be about what comes next.”
This is the moment every ghostwriter waits for. The client has stopped seeing the book as a chore. He’s seeing it as something real. Something that matters.
We talk for an hour about legacy, about meaning, about what he wants people to take away from his story. None of this was in the original outline. All of it is better than what we planned.
“Can you write that?” he asks.
“I can write that.”
Day Thirty: The End
Buttercup takes his pill every morning now. He doesn’t like it, but he tolerates it. We’ve reached an understanding, the cat and I. He accepts that I’m going to keep doing this, and I accept that he’s going to glare at me afterward.
The scratches on my arms have healed. Mostly.
🐾
The manuscript is done. Three hundred and twelve pages. Twelve chapters. Eighteen months of work compressed into a document that will have someone else’s name on the cover.
The client reads the final draft in one sitting. He calls me afterward, and for a moment he doesn’t say anything.
“It’s like you climbed inside my head,” he says finally. “How did you do that?”
I want to tell him the truth. That I’ve had practice with stubborn creatures. That the secret is patience, persistence, and knowing when to try a different approach. That the real work isn’t the writing. It’s earning the trust of someone who’d rather be doing anything else.
Instead I just say, “It’s what I do.”
The Moral
Here’s what I’ve learned from cats and clients: both will resist you. Both will scratch. Both will run and hide and make you question every choice that led you to this moment.
But if you stay patient, stay flexible, and keep showing up, eventually something shifts. The pill goes down. The story comes out. The book exists.
And somewhere in the process, the creature who fought you every step of the way starts to trust you. Maybe even appreciates what you did.
Buttercup is purring in my lap as I write this. The client’s book hit shelves last month. He called to tell me about the first review, and for ten minutes he sounded like a kid on Christmas morning.
Neither of them will ever fully understand what it took. That’s fine. That’s the job.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for Buttercup’s evening pill. Wish me luck.
If you have a book in you and need someone with the patience to get it out, start with a conversation.
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Ghostwriting Process FAQ
I have always wanted to be a ghost writer or have a ghost writer that can write for me. This article is very helpful.
interesting post. I have never even thought of writing a book as I think it is too much challenge for me, even if I had had the story to tell. my husband is a writer and I know who it is. Your post reflects a lot. even though I don’t think ghostwriting is healthy.
I never tried to write a book but I would love to take up writing a book as a personal challenge. I love the idea.
Well, that’s what I do for a living and, you are right, it’s a great career and a wonderful personal challenge. I just finished my 48th ghostwritten book.
Amazing post and interesting metaphor. Will pin this post.