The nails hammered in with the finality of a judge’s gavel…
bang, bang, bang.
Inside? Ghostwriting. Your ghostwriting. That spectral little fucker you’ve been feeding for years, shovelling your voice into its gaping, incorporeal maw. (Poof. Gone. Like a fart in the church of getting paid)
And honestly I still don’t know how I feel about it. Kinda relieved and kinda meh.
I’ve signed off on my last Ghostwriting client and that’s it. Poof. Gone. Bang.
And if this was a dance. I’d say it was waltz that lasted way too long.
The NDAs were coiled around my throat like a lover’s hands.
And don’t get me wrong. There was this weird thrill of crafting worlds that’ll never bear my name…
(I’ve never had a thing for popularity and fame)
The cash though. Was thick, syrupy, cloying and dripping into my bank account while my ego was starved on a diet of shut-the-hell-up.
I mean I’ve written speeches for crypto bros who think “blockchain” is a sex position. Novels for influencers whose talent peaked at duck-face selfies. Corporate manifestos so sanitised they could’ve been scrubbed with bleach and a wire brush.
The list goes on.
No more though.
The straitjacket’s off. The muzzle’s cracked. The cheque’s cashed.
(I’ll miss the extra money. But freedom’s a currency that buys better drugs anyways)
It’s time to dig up the bones I buried.
2025? It’s a hungry year. A year of teeth and ink.
And a friend so aptly say “You’ve been the shadow. Now be the fire.”
If that isn’t motivation, then I dunno what is.
Lemme know if there’s anything you’ve decided to kick to the curb and if you’ve replaced it with something you wanna pursue.
Stephen Walker