Ghostwriter Quotes

“Vani Sarca, señores. la mujer que, cuando repartieron la integración social, estaba en casa leyendo a Salinger.”
― Alice Basso, Scrivere è un mestiere pericoloso

“The nastiest kind of writer is a ghostwriter, who bears people’s children in their body for money.”
― M.F. Moonzajer, LOVE, HATRED AND MADNESS

“He dug his thumbnail into the blushing peel and pulled until the dark red fruit appeared, spraying citrus oil everywhere. As he pulled the fruit into its sections, it glowed like rubies. It made the fruit I'd bought at the supermarket for our ill-fated experiment look dry and stale in comparison.
"Why do you have to show me now?"
I stopped cold, because he'd grabbed my chin. His fingers were soft, insistent.
"Because I want to. Open," he said. He was smiling, but there was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Determination?
When I gaped at him, he popped the orange segment in my mouth.
I bit down, and my eyes fluttered shut. Sweet-sour fireworks exploded across my tongue, and I couldn't help but moan a little bit. I tasted orange, of course, but there were raspberries and a little bit of rose petal, too.
"That's incredible," I said once I'd swallowed. "Like eating a sunset."
When I opened my eyes, he was staring at my mouth. I felt fireworks again, this time in my stomach. But a second later, he smiled big and said, "I was going to say a party in my mouth, but I guess that's why you're the writer.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“If I just do Molly's book, it'll go uncredited. No one will know that I worked on it. It'll do nothing for me or my career. I may as well have not written anything at all."
"But is that what this is all about for you? You and your career? Is that why you became a writer, so that people would know who you are? Or was it to do work that matters?"
This was spilling over into the same debate that they'd had on their first date. Gabe was comfortable in the shadows, setting his ego aside and staying out of the limelight. But was Gabe doing the honorable thing or the cowardly thing? What kind of career could you have--- as either a chef or a writer--- if nobody knew who you were? Isabella wasn't sure that she wanted to give up her shot at the limelight just yet.
"You can be a well-known writer who does good, meaningful work... They're not mutually exclusive," countered Isabella.
"Is it good, meaningful work when you're betraying someone who trusts you? To expose all of their secrets and stories from their private life?"
That one stung.
"It's not a betrayal when you're telling the truth," argued Isabella, repositioning herself to face Gabe.
"If someone lets you into their world," said Gabe, rolling to face her, "isn't there a presumption of privacy? I can't imagine writing a tell-all about any of the chefs that I've worked for, even when the chef was shitty. Nobody in my industry would ever do that."
"Of course they would! Haven't you ever seen The Bear?"
"The Bear's a TV show."
"But it started as a book."
"I'm pretty sure it didn't."
"The point is," said a flustered Isabella, getting out of bed, "the right choice will be obvious to me when it's time."
She said it with such conviction she almost believed it herself.
"The right choice is obvious to me now.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Before Isabella could answer, she held her phone up in front of Molly so Molly could see what she had written:


FUCK YOU DANA AND FUCK YOUR ARTICLE. MOLLY BABCOCK IS MY FRIEND. I'M NOT SENDING YOU SHIT.


She hit Send so that Molly could watch it go through.
Molly turned to Isabella, eyes watery, her face filled with gratitude and relief.
"Is this your sister? Your bestie? Your agent? What's happening here?"
Molly pulled away and, shifting back into TV mode, she put her arm around Isabella's shoulder and said, "This is Isabella Pasternak. She's my ghostwriter.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Empathy is thin gruel compared to the marrow of existence.”
― J.R. Moehringer

“When she looked at it from a distance, she saw how absurd her plan was: a meaningful cookbook from Molly Babcock? It was like trying to make potatoes dauphine from a Mr. Potato Head.
And Isabella would've arrived at this conclusion, would've understood this point eventually, if it hadn't been for the trip to New Jersey and the discovery of Molly's mother. Candy Babcock, with her collection of recipes and little notes to herself and articles that she clipped, had all of the depth, the culinary point of view, the hard-won kitchen knowledge that Molly lacked. Candy had something real to say about food, something important: it came from a lifetime of making it, thanklessly, for a husband and daughter who clearly took it all for granted.
And that triggered something in Isabella. The farther she drove through the mountains, the more she realized that the ghost of Candy Babcock had inhabited her that day in the basement of Molly's childhood home. After that, Isabella's job was no longer to facilitate Molly's vision, of which there was very little; her job was to vindicate the life of a woman who had lived in the shadows, whose passions went uncelebrated, whose contributions went unrecognized. A woman, it turned out, who was a lot like Isabella.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Isabella wasn't a fan of the celebrity memoir, especially a celebrity memoir by someone barely in their thirties. But Molly had a story to tell, especially now: a story about her childhood, a story about her mother, a story about escaping it all, starting her career, refusing to go back, the recipes that she'd rediscovered, and then the fire that swallowed those recipes whole, although they still lived, miraculously, on Isabella's computer.
"It's not a bad idea," said Molly. "I always felt like a bit of a fraud writing a cookbook anyway."
"I wouldn't say 'fraud,'" replied Isabella. "More like an imposter."
Molly laughed. "So you'll help me write that? A memoir with recipes?"
"Of course," said Isabella. "What's a ghostwriter for?”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person