Ghost Writing

It won't last, I'm sure. Before long readers will discover that  I am a fraud. That the writings published under my name, are not mine but have been authored by others.

I am not a plagiarist but simply the amanuensis of more eminent literary exponents.

It all started when I took employment as a security guard at a factory on the periphery of town.

To combat tedium during the night shift, I began jotting down ideas that developed into reasonable plots for fictional stories that I submitted for publication and accepted by a magazine.

The feedback on these tales was fairly encouraging but nothing to write home about. 

Most times I struggled with the dreaded writer's block and on one of these occasions I was concentrating on a blank page that was crying out to be filled with flowing prose when I sensed the presence of someone looking over my shoulders.

Neglecting my duties as a security guard, I never challenged the intruder nor asked him how he gained entry.

He seemed innocuous and not threatening. On the contrary, he had the appearance of a perfect gentleman with a florid face and bushy mustache.

“What are you writing?” he enquired politely.

“Oh, mere trifle,” I modestly replied.

“Nonsense,” he boomed with a hint of a Scottish accent, “there is nothing so important as trifles.”

These words resonated with me and suddenly I saw the connection.

“Sherlock,” I exclaimed.

“Aye, laddie,” he said, “let me introduce myself; my name is Conan.

Either his eyesight was deteriorating or he was being facetitious as I was no more laddie than he was.

Anyway, the fact that he was here next to me, in spirit if not in body, was incontrovertible evidence that his belief in spiritualism had been right all along.

Though the reason for his visit was unclear to me I waited with bated breath to learn of its purpose.

I remembered reading that this master storyteller had once said,  “I flatter myself that I am somewhat of a connoisseur of short stories” and hoped that he would make a favourable assessment of my work.

Without specifically referring to me, he generalised that most of the modern world would-be writers' efforts were too bland, predictable and conformist. I believe that he was inferring that they were unnecessarily politically correct, but I could be wrong. I dared not interrupt in case I should miss some pearl of wisdom.

He went on to say that nowadays, in the pursuit of the great British/American (or any other nationality) novel, the short story has taken a back seat.

“I suppose that when one is submerged by an avalanche of ideas that could fill a big book, it might seem a waste to use them all in a wee piece of prose,” he said philosophically.

He paused, put some strong shag-cut tobacco in his pipe and took a puff. 

Sensing that I was waiting for him to explain why he had accorded me the privilege of his acquaintance, he came straight to the point.

“A lot of authors like me, William< George, Herman, Jane, Virginia, Jules and many others, have in our lifetime achieved fame and sometimes fortune. We think that you, the young blood of today's literature are deserving of the same opportunities we had...”

He hesitated and I could see a but coming.

“...but judging by the frequent writer's blocks that you and your fellow writers have, it seems that you are, at the moment, bereft of ideas.”

“We, on the other end,” he continued, “have an abundance of new and intriguing plots that we could exploit if we were still alive. We are proposing, if you are willing, to offer you our tutelage which will enable you to use the unused material that we have.”

It was an unorthodox approach but I thought 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained'. So I said,

“Fire away, let me hear what you have.”

He started and for the next two hours, I wrote in my notebook, word for word, everything that he uttered.

This time my story was received with great acclaim and following that success, other surrogate authors joined the ranks of contributors.

Accolades after accolades enhanced my reputation.

No one knows my secret but how long will it be before someone will see through my deceit and expose me as a fraud?

© Luigi Pagano 2024

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