The Ghostwriter

by Julie Clark

It’s hard to know who hurt me more—my mother for leaving and never looking back, or my father, who disappeared before my eyes. Pieces of him vanishing like a parlor trick, until there was no one left but me.

“Siblings define who you are at that age. I’d always been the middle child, measured against Danny and Poppy my entire life. Then suddenly they were gone and all that was left was this vast emptiness. Silence. Except for my mother’s crying.”

The truth I can never say aloud is that I’m not sad about Danny. I’m glad he’s dead.

This is the consequence of speaking out as a woman. We are labeled hysterical, emotional, unreliable, and finally, incompetent.

The truth lives in people’s actions, their unguarded moments, not in the lies they tell.”

There’s a reason historians rely so heavily on primary sources. Because human memory is flawed.

I’m beginning to realize that once you lie about your past, you wall yourself off from the present.

“He never showed up for me.” Jack gives me a sympathetic look. “Relationships aren’t transactional.”

“Every chapter has to have a point. Even if the reader can’t yet see it. Every story told must serve two purposes—to allow your reader to know your characters better, and to push the narrative toward the conclusion.”