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Ghostwriter Services
Hire Me to Write Your Book!
As a ghostwriter, I provide the dedicated time, attention and skills your writing project deserves. I am discreet, trustworthy and treat each story with great respect. We will work closely together to turn your idea into a professional manuscript ready for publication.
Pricing
Customized Quotes
Pricing is dependent on how much you've already written (if any), time frame, and desired length of book. I've done some work (drafting book outline and story lines, as well as editing) on a project cost basis at $100 per hour. Most writing, though, is priced between $0.50 to $0.80 per word.
Writing Samples
My own memoir, which covers a two-year journey of self discovery, during which I lost both my parents, went through a divorce, and travelled through Europe.
My room in the small hostel in Florence overlooking the square has a real bed. Quite a change from the creaky cots with two inch pads I've slept in throughout my trip. It is divine, with crisp white linens and a cozy knitted turquoise blanket. I have the room to myself. No bunk beds; no roommates. I keep the shutters open slightly, enjoying the delicious breeze, feeling a sense of being at home in the world. It will be nice to sleep in a real bed. I’ve gotten so tired of twisting and turning in a sleeping bag on a hard mattress with springs popping out. Not much better than tree roots poking me all night when I tent camp.
After sitting in the moonlight by the open window for hours, journaling, crying, talking to my Mom, my Dad, and God, I finally crawl into the cozy bed. I fall into a deep sleep and awaken late, barely making it down to the lobby in time for the breakfast of pastries and fruit that is available until ten.
I head off to spend the day at the Boboli Gardens, a huge 16th century garden surrounding the beautiful Pitti Palace. The gardens are so peaceful, with acres of intricately sculpted shrubs, large wide lawns, centuries-old statues, and expansive views of the city of Florence below. I wander for hours around the estate, stopping in various spots to enjoy the sun, nap in the shade, journal, and eat my lunch. As I walk down a long, wide graveled road, bordered on either side by closely planted rows of tall Italian Cypress trees, I can almost imagine a horse-drawn chariot with Roman soldiers coming towards me.
A memoir I co-wrote for my childhood best friend, who was a nanny for the four Kardashian children during their childhood.
My first official day of work as nanny to the Kardashian kids is April 21, 1991 — the wedding day of Bruce and Kris. The outdoor wedding is held at a beautiful mansion in Bel Air (a very wealthy area of Los Angeles, even more exclusive than neighboring Beverly Hills). I am mesmerized by the beautiful people and extravagance. For a small town girl from Minnesota, the event and setting seem like a royal wedding. Every detail — from the flowers to the dresses to the table settings — is picture perfect.
The ceremony and reception are held outside in the expansive backyard that is meticulously landscaped. White and pink flowers are everywhere, and the fragrance in the air is heavenly. White chairs line the lawn in perfect rows on one side for the ceremony, while the other half of the yard holds tables that seem too beautiful to touch. They are works of art with crisp white linens, white china, exquisite crystal, and lovely centerpieces with aromatic white and pink blooms.
The event is quite a contrast to the weddings I’ve attended back in the Midwest. Most wedding receptions were held in the basement of a church or at the local American Legion (every town has one), with sandwiches, a few salads, and wedding cake served buffet style. Occasionally, someone would really go all out and hold the reception at a hotel in a neighboring town with a formal sit-down dinner. But that was a rarity. I had never been to a wedding like this before.
A memoir I am ghostwriting for a man who was falsely arrested and imprisoned, destroying his 30 year medical career.
Sinking to my knees, the tears continue to fall as I contemplate my options. Life. Or death. Ending my suffering will bring deep pain to others. There is no win-win here. Round and round my thoughts swirl, dark and gray, an endless abyss of torment, finding no acceptable solution. No way out of this misery.
The clang and scrape from a metal food tray being slipped under my cell door wake me abruptly from my dark stupor. I realize I’ve fallen asleep in a heap on the floor.
Food is the last thing on my mind, but I slowly get up off the cold concrete, my joints achy and stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position. I walk over to pick up my tray. I know if I don’t accept it, the guards will enter my cell to check on me. I don’t need the harassment, especially right now. Being in isolation is torture enough, but they still find ways to mess with prisoners at any opportunity that presents itself. I can’t give them a reason.
I guess it’s a good thing I fell asleep. The moment of seemingly unsurvivable despair has passed. I eat slowly, chewing each bite longer than necessary, clinging to a small shred of hope, thanking God for the love I have in my life. Love that sustains me and gives me reason to live. I realize I don’t want to take my life. I can’t go through with it. Despite how depressed I am and hopeless this seems, the truth is I do have much to live for. I offer a short prayer to God for reminding me, despite my current situation, I am deeply loved - by him and by many other people.
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