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I’ve always been drawn to the in-between spaces. The pauses before answers. The beat between heartbeats. The moment someone exhales and begins to speak—not perform, not posture, but really speak. That’s where the story lives. That’s where I work.

Being a ghostwriter in London is a bit like being a translator for someone’s interior life. You sit with them—virtually or literally—and help shape the unsaid into sentences. You hold their memories like rare glass, turning each one until the light hits just right. You listen more than you talk. You get good at silence.

People often ask what it’s like, being invisible by trade. They mean it kindly, sometimes curiously. “Doesn’t it bother you?” they say. “Writing books for other people?” But there’s something deeply satisfying about memoir and biography ghostwriting —about helping someone carry a life that’s been too heavy to hold alone. You help shape the structure. They supply the soul. The reward isn’t your name on the cover; it’s knowing you helped someone finally speak.

The same is true for fiction. Some stories come dressed in metaphor, and some arrive as tangled threads. Being a fiction ghostwriter also means I am adept at translating lives into a novel at the client’s request.  This is a question of learning to decode the emotional logic of a client’s imagined world. It means asking questions that go far beyond plot: What truth are we trying to tell here? What ache are we circling?

Often, I also wear the hat of a writing coach working online or in person in London. For the brave souls who want to meet face-to-face, we seek a private writing space in which ideas are shared, constructive criticims, some editing passed on and tasks set for our next meeting, all with the end game of publication. Yet this role is less about fixing and more about facilitating. Coaching isn’t about prescribing; it’s about helping someone excavate the voice that’s already there, just waiting to be heard under the rubble of doubt and deadlines.

Some clients come to me mid-memoir; others come at the very beginning, with nothing more than a story they’ve been repeating at dinner parties for years. A few arrive with the determined gleam of someone ready to self-publish, asking for guidance on every step of the journey. As a ghostwriter able to offer self-publishing, I help steer that process—ghostwriting, editing, shaping, and supporting until it becomes a book they’re proud to hold.

And then there are those moments—fewer, quieter—where someone simply needs to believe they can write. That’s where ghostwriting and book coaching in intersect. I don’t just ghostwrite; I walk alongside whether in London of further afield, remotely. There’s a strange intimacy to that. You build trust not only with the client, but with the version of themselves they’re becoming—author, speaker, survivor, artist.

I don’t promise transformation. I’m not a guru. But I do believe in the slow, careful business of telling the truth—whether it’s for a client’s novel, their memoir or biography, self-help, business or health book, or something more amorphous that doesn’t yet know its name. And in this quiet corner of publishing, where a professional ghostwriter in London works without applause, that truth-telling becomes a kind of architecture. Word by word, sentence by sentence, we build a house someone else can live in.

So no, it doesn’t bother me not to be seen. I see the work. And the work sees me.