Every ghostwriter has a process page. Most of them describe the same six boxes: discovery, interviews, outline, drafting, revision, delivery. Mine has the same boxes, and I’ve described them in how a ghostwriting project works. This page is about what happens inside them when I’m the one doing it, after 54+ books.
I think most process pages skip what makes a book any good. Anyone can draw six boxes.
The book depends on what the writer asks, how long they’ll wait for the answer, and whether they’ll tell you when a chapter isn’t working. Those are the things I want a prospective client to judge me on.
Where did my method come from?
From the Christmas visits when I was a teenager and my grandfather finally talked. At seventeen I asked him about the war, and over a few Christmas visits the story came out in pieces: the gunboat in Shanghai, Corregidor, three years and four months as a prisoner of the Japanese.
Decades later it became my book Behind the Wire. Everything I still do started there: ask the question nobody has asked, then listen long enough for the answer. The full story is in why I became a ghostwriter.
The other half came from 33 years in enterprise technology, including 20 years as Director of Computer Operations and Technical Services at Trader Joe’s. That taught me to run a long project without drama, and a book is a long project.
People who come to me after a bad experience with another ghostwriter tell me the same stories over and over.
The writer blew the schedule, asked for more money halfway through, or handed back a manuscript that didn’t sound like them. The first two are project management failures, and the third comes from skimping on the interviews. I don’t have much patience for any of them, because the client pays for each one in months they can’t get back.
How does the kickoff meeting work?
It’s an hour, and it sets the terms for the next several months. We agree who the book is for, what it has to do for you, and how we’ll work. I tell every client that this is a relationship between two adults: if something bothers you, say so, and I’ll do the same.
Then I give one rule. Don’t tell me anything you don’t want in the book. I used to accept “off the record” stories, and months later I couldn’t remember which ones were meant to stay private. Now the rule is simple: if it shouldn’t be in the book, don’t say it.
Where and how do the interviews happen?
Wherever the client is comfortable. Most sessions are on Zoom. It records, and it makes the client tick a box to agree. Plenty of my clients dislike video, and a phone call works just as well. Clients near me in Tampa Bay often prefer to meet in person. The first time, I usually take them for a meal at the Safety Harbor Resort and Spa. Working sessions happen at the library next door, where it’s quiet enough to record.
After every session, I send a summary of what we covered, produced from the transcript with AI’s help. I keep the recordings for about three months, and clients can ask for copies or ask me to delete them. I bring tissues to in-person interviews. Clients use them more often than you’d think.
What kind of questions do I ask?
Mostly questions people haven’t been asked before. Everyone has a polished version of their story, the one they tell at conferences, and it’s usually the least interesting version.
I ask about specific moments, then follow the answer instead of my list. I deliberately probe for failures, because the book that only covers the wins reads like a brochure. A business book needs, as I put it to clients, the blood and guts as well as the glory.
When someone reaches something painful and starts to cry, I stop asking. We drift to something light, the weather or their dog, until they’re ready to go back. Some stories take four sessions to come out. That’s fine.
What question do I ask before every chapter?
What should the reader feel when they finish it? Most business books fail because they forget the reader. They share knowledge without making anyone care why it matters. If a chapter’s answer is “nothing,” the chapter isn’t done yet.
Once I know the feeling, I pick the story that produces it and build the chapter’s argument around that story. Readers remember and pass on information wrapped in a story. They skim information alone.
I’ve got no use for a chapter that’s all information. Readers can get the facts from a search engine for free, and a business book that reads like a manual gives them no reason to remember whose book it was.
What will I write, and what won’t I?
The worst feedback a client can give me is polite feedback.
I’ll write views I disagree with, on politics, religion and plenty else. It’s the client’s book, and I’m not their priest, therapist or judge. What I will do is brief a client, as a trusted advisor, when something they want to say about a former employer or an ex-spouse could get them sued, and help them rework the passage so it’s still true without being actionable. So far every client has taken that advice.
Before I sign, I turn down some books. I don’t write revenge memoirs. I don’t write on spec for a share of royalties. And I once turned down a retired FBI informant who wanted to name the Mafia figures he’d informed on, at what would have been the biggest fee of my career.
How do the chapters reach you?
One at a time, as they’re finished. You read each chapter, tell me what’s wrong or missing or doesn’t sound like you, and I revise. By the third chapter, most clients know how to give feedback that helps, and the voice is exact. When the whole manuscript is done, you read it once more in order, and I make a final pass. Then it goes to an editor for polish, whether one of the two I refer clients to or someone you already use.
The worst feedback a client can give me is polite feedback.
If a chapter doesn’t sound like you and you call it fine because you don’t want to hurt my feelings, that sentence ends up in print with your name on it. Tell me it’s wrong. I’d much prefer to rewrite a page in month two than hear about it after publication.
The contract caps the length with an “up to” word count, so the price is fixed. If the book needs to grow, we agree a change order first. A client who needs the book fast pays a rush premium and more up front. The fastest I’ve done was 80,000 words in three months.
Why only six to eight clients a year?
Because a book deserves the attention. I work on several books at once, each at a different stage, and a larger list would mean shorter interviews, slower chapters and less care. Keeping it small is how I can answer the phone when a client calls with a story they just remembered.
My take
Polite feedback is the worst thing you can give a ghostwriter. If a chapter doesn’t sound like you and you call it fine, that sentence goes to print with your name on it. Tell me it’s wrong in month two, while it’s one page. Call when a story comes back to you. The method runs on questions and listening, and it falls apart when the client stops being honest about the page.
Is my method right for your book?
If you have expertise or a story worth a book and would rather talk it out than write it, yes. If you’d rather write it yourself with help, book coaching is the better fit.
The best way to find out is to try it. The Book Discovery Intensive runs my interview process on a small scale and ends with a plan for the book and one finished chapter to judge me by. My ghostwriting services cover the full book, and my rate is published there.
Whichever ghostwriter you hire, judge them on the interviews and the first few chapters, since the rest of the book depends on both. A writer who rushes the talking or shrugs off your notes on chapter one will still be doing it at chapter twelve, and I’d walk away from that writer early, before you’ve paid for most of a book that doesn’t sound like you.
The questions and listening behind my process are laid out in The Ghostwriting Advantage, my book on how to get your book written for you.
