TL;DR
People imagine a ghostwriter has one good conversation with a client and then writes the book. My practice is different. By the time Joe Rockey and I finished, we had spent the equivalent of a full workday across multiple structured sessions. The reason more time matters is not volume of information. It is what happens to a client’s thinking when they are asked to examine it repeatedly, from different angles. The first session is orientation, the polished version. By the third or fourth, the client stops presenting and starts examining, and that is where the real material comes from.
The interviewing is most of the work. The writing is the comparatively simple act of rendering what the interviews already established.Share on X
People tend to imagine that a ghostwriter sits down with a client, has one good long conversation, and then goes off to write the book. That version of the process exists. Some ghostwriters work that way. The books they produce tend to show it in ways the author eventually regrets, thin in the places where depth was needed, general where specificity would have done the work, written by someone who understood the topic in theory but had not spent enough time inside the client’s actual thinking.
My practice is different. By the time Joe Rockey and I finished our interview phase, we had spent the equivalent of a full workday across multiple sessions on structured conversation. The reason more time is better is not volume of information. It is what happens to a client’s thinking when they are asked to examine it repeatedly, from different angles, by someone whose only job in the room is to understand what they are actually saying.
To put a number on it, the discovery phase for a book like Joe’s runs to many hours of recorded conversation, which becomes a stack of transcripts that would print to a small book on its own, before a word of the actual manuscript exists. People are sometimes startled by that ratio. They imagined the writing was the work and the interviewing was preparation for the work. It is the reverse. The interviewing is most of the work, and the writing is the comparatively simple act of rendering what the interviews already established.
The first session is orientation
The first session with any client is mostly orientation. They tell me the polished version of their thinking, what they say in presentations, what they are proud of, the framework they have explained enough times that it comes out smooth and automatic. That version is the starting point. It is never the destination. A particular kind of answer signals I am still in orientation territory: the answer that sounds like a headline. Short, clean, a little too neat. Useful as a pitch. Not useful as the foundation of a book. A book requires the thinking behind the headline, the cases that tested it, the moments where it did not work and what that revealed.
There is a reason the polished version is so smooth, and it is the same reason it is so useless for a book. It has been optimized over hundreds of repetitions to end conversations, not open them. It exists to make a prospect nod and move forward, which means every rough edge, every qualification, every interesting exception has been sanded off in the name of clarity. Those sanded-off edges are precisely what a book needs. My job in the early sessions is to get underneath the polish to the thinking it was built to summarize.
By the third or fourth session with Joe, the quality of the conversation had changed in a way I recognize from projects that produce good books. He was no longer presenting his expertise. He was examining it. He was following ideas somewhere he had not taken them before, qualifying positions mid-sentence when he heard something that did not quite hold, circling back to stories he had mentioned in passing because they deserved more attention than the passing mention had given them.
There is a specific moment I listen for across the sessions, and it is the moment the client surprises themselves. They are following a thought, and they arrive somewhere they had not planned to go, and they pause, and they say some version of huh, I had not put it that way before. That pause is gold. It means we have moved past the rehearsed material into something being formed in real time, and the thing being formed is almost always more honest and more specific than anything that came before it. A single-session interview never reaches that moment, because that moment only happens after the easy material is exhausted.
Four things that came out of the later sessions
Four things came out of those later sessions that are going into the manuscript. The first is about what most managers actually give the people they promote:
I know how to ride a bike, why can’t you? Pedal fast and don’t fall. Well, thanks, jackass. Now what.
That is not a caricature. It is a precise description of the leadership training most line managers receive. The second captures the entire transformation his methodology produces in six words:
They don’t have to be a dick. They just think they do.
The third explains why the conventional approach to team communication fails for the majority of people on any given team:
You’re only fluent in about 25% of the personality combinations that exist.
If you are only equipped to communicate naturally with a quarter of the personality types you manage, the other three quarters are receiving a message that does not land, and nobody knows why. The manager thinks they are being clear. The employee thinks they are being misunderstood. Both are right. The fourth quote is about the assessment tool that makes the methodology work:
This test tells you the edges of your puzzle piece, and which pieces you should and should not connect with.
None of those four lines would have appeared in a single-session interview. They are not the kind of thing a person says when they are still delivering their standard presentation. They surfaced because Joe had been thinking out loud for hours by then, with someone asking the next question and the next, until he reached the formulations that were sharper and truer than the rehearsed ones. That is what the additional sessions buy. Not more information. Better thinking, captured at the moment it gets articulated clearly for the first time.
Why the quotes matter so much
I preserve quotes like these exactly as the client says them, because the specific phrasing is the voice. Paraphrasing Joe’s line about the bike into something more polished would strip out everything that makes it land, the impatience, the bluntness, the dark humor that is unmistakably his. A book in someone’s voice is built from hundreds of these preserved moments, the exact words they reached for when they were thinking hard rather than performing. Lose the phrasing and you lose the person.
This is also why the recording matters. Memory smooths things out. If I worked from notes, I would remember the gist of what Joe said and lose the exact words, and the exact words are the whole point. The recording lets me capture the line as it was actually spoken, with the rhythm and the bluntness intact, so it can go into the book the way he said it rather than the way I would have tidied it up.
Six sessions produced more usable material than the book will have room for. That is the goal. You want to finish discovery with more strong material than you can use, because then the book is built from the best of what exists rather than padded with everything that exists. A book assembled from surplus reads dense and confident. A book stretched to fill its length reads thin, and the reader feels it on every page even if they cannot say why.
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Frequently Asked Questions
More than one good conversation. For Joe Rockey’s book, the equivalent of a full workday across multiple structured sessions. The value is not the volume of information but what happens to the author’s thinking when it is examined repeatedly from different angles by someone whose only job is to understand it.
Because the first session is orientation, where the author gives the polished version they have delivered hundreds of times, optimized to end conversations rather than open them. The rough edges and interesting exceptions a book needs have been sanded off. It takes several sessions to get underneath the polish to the actual thinking.
The author stops presenting and starts examining. They follow ideas to new places, qualify positions mid-sentence, and return to stories they mentioned in passing. The sharpest, truest formulations tend to surface here, after hours of thinking out loud, often at the moment the author surprises themselves with a thought they had not put that way before.
Because the specific phrasing is the voice. Polishing a blunt, funny line into something smoother strips out exactly what makes it land and what makes it unmistakably the author’s. A book in someone’s voice is built from hundreds of these preserved moments, the exact words they reached for when thinking hard rather than performing.
Because memory smooths things out. Working from notes captures the gist and loses the exact words, and the exact words are the point. Recording preserves the line as actually spoken, with its rhythm and bluntness intact, so it can go into the book the way the author said it rather than tidied up.
Yes. Finishing with more strong material than you can use means the book is built from the best of what exists rather than padded with all of it. A book assembled from surplus reads dense and confident; a book stretched to fill its length reads thin, and readers feel it on every page.