Sometimes, writers must be good at keeping secrets.
One night many years ago, I got to a party before my friend, and like most introverts, headed straight for the food so I would have something to do.
A couple of the town’s biggest movers and shakers huddled nearby, drinks in hand.
“I ran into Jack Sloan the other day,” one said.
“It’s been ages,” the other said.
“At Waffle House, of all places. He was with someone. A young guy. About to transfer to the university and staying at Jack’s place.”
My ears perked up. Greta was Jack’s ex-wife, as bitter as they come.
Later, my friend introduced me to the two men and mentioned that I was acquainted with Jack Sloan.
“Ah, yes,” one of them said. “He’s mentioned you. He’s thrilled with what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” I said. That’s when I knew ghostwriting was the perfect career for me.
I smiled and tried to guess what their reaction would be when they learned why Jack was happy with my work.
It turns out that Greta was bitter not just because her 60-something husband left her, but because he left her for a college-age man.
Jack was wealthy enough to buy Greta’s silence, but soon she would be free to gossip as much as she wished.
Tired of being a hypocrite, Jack intended to set the record straight with the memoir he hired me to write.