Memoir Ghostwriting Novels & Stories

The air was thick with anticipation, as if the walls themselves held countless untold stories. I approached the reception desk, where a young woman with piercing blue eyes and an enigmatic smile greeted me. Her name tag read "Lena." "Welcome to Memoria," she said, her voice soft yet confident. "How may I assist you today?" "I... I've heard that you can erase memories," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is it true?" Lena nodded, her gaze unwavering. "Yes, it's true. Memoria specializes in memory alteration. We help individuals who seek to escape the pain of their past, to start anew."

“I just need your help with a little thing.” Lance stopped rotating his chair. “Go on.” “I need you to publish a book,” Calvin said. “Yours? You need a ghostwriter?” Calvin frowned. “What’s that?” “Someone who’ll write your idea at a price,” Lance explained. “The name on the book will be yours, of course. No one will know you used someone else. Is that what you want? Why do you need a ghostwriter?” “I never said I needed one.” “But you want to publish.”

The way he had in the basement library, when he was trying to decide if he could trust me. "Ghost doesn't take money," he said. "He doesn't take favors. He takes pieces of people. Memories. Secrets. Things you can't get back." "Then we make sure we don't give him anything we can't afford to lose." --- The number on Miriam's card connected after two rings. A voice answered. Not male. Not female. Something in between. Processed through a modulator, scrambled beyond recognition. "You reached the line," the voice said. "State your business."

Even though you are a not a human anymore but a ghost when we found each other, but you are the one that could fill my heart. Once again. Thank you Kevin. I wrote this letter for you... and myself. So that I can read it again and again. So that I can remember you. I also wrote a book about us. How we met each other, your story, mine, ours…. I can imagine your laugh when I tell you that I wrote a book. But let me tell you. It’s a hit, you know? Hehe… Another reason was, because my memories seemed to vanish little by little.

"Scared of everything. Scared to live, scared to take risks, scared to be anything more than mediocre. It's exhausting being related to you." "That's not true," I whispered. "Isn't it?" Tanum sat on the arm of the couch, looking at me like I was a particularly boring insect. "Name one brave thing you've ever done. One impressive thing. You're a ghostwriter, Mia. You don't even write under your own name. You're invisible. Forgettable. Why would anyone choose you when there are better options?" I wanted to argue. To defend myself. To tell them they were wrong.

“Not really. But she believes that. Part of her psych conditioning. Conviction sells the lie better than programming.” The copy stepped closer. But there was something… wrong. Her eyes flickered slightly. She glanced at me. Paused. Then looked back at Mia. “Do you feel it?” the copy asked softly. Mia said nothing. “We’re the same.” “We’re not,” Mia replied. “I earned my memories.” “And I never lost mine.” Mia’s jaw tightened. “You’re a ghost,” she said. “A reflection. And I’m done chasing shadows.” Then, in one fluid motion, Mia drew the pulse-dagger from beneath her coat and slammed the hilt into the glass.

Epilogue: Now that I have written several of these stories, I find that my old ghosts have started to haunt my dreams yet again. It is amazing that once things are written down, they begin to take on a life of their own. Just remember, if you don’t want things to go bump in the night, don’t tell anyone else about them.

He had needed her to say it anyway. He spent the following year writing. He worked early in the mornings before the household woke up, sitting at his desk with coffee going cold beside him, putting down one true thing after another. It was harder than any business deal he had ever negotiated. Business required precision and strategy. This required something else. It required him to stay inside memories he had trained himself to move past efficiently, to look at them long enough to describe them clearly, to find the words for things that had lived in him wordlessly for decades.

“Have you thought about what we discussed yet?” The memory of those early days, hunched over my laptop in the quiet solitude of my apartment, juggling ghostwriting gigs while writing books under a pseudonym, brought a wave of nostalgia. A.R Eve, the name I'd chosen - a combination of my initials and my mother's name - had become a shield, a way to navigate the world of publishing without exposing my introverted nature.

Sleep still clung faintly to her face, but her hazel eyes studied me carefully the moment they landed on the whiskey bottle beside me. And just like that, the ghosts of my past quieted. Because somehow this little human had started becoming louder than my memories. ** follow me on I,n,s,t,g,r,a,m: authormiragreen