Ghost Writer ...Part 2 ...Finale

The secret to writing is to get your own pain. Shout it out
till it hurts your throat. Weep it into your pillow - then write it down ...

.

I was feeling really down—I mean, bad enough I was a struggling writer, but having to be mentored by a ghost? It was too tough on my ego and way too hard on my flesh.

At least Harry could look back on an illustrious career and the mark he left on the literary world.

Me? I took the L and completely failed. Hary's a winner and I'm a putz.

“You’re looking peeked lately, Kent.”

I just shrugged.

He gazed at me compassionately, “Maybe I’ve been pushing you too hard.”

I slowly shook my head. “No, Harry—it’s not that—it’s me. I realized I’m a sham. You were right about me—I’m just a hack.”

“Well, perhaps I was a little harsh, my boy—you’ve come a long way since then. You told me yourself how you’ve grown.”

“Yeah, sure Harry—grown rich because of you. Face it—I’m a light-duty imitation of you. You’re the heart and soul behind the novel—I’m just your errand boy.”

Harry protested, but I’d made up my mind. I went into seclusion—took a small beach house in Florida on the Gulf coast and didn’t come back to New York for six months.

Harry was waiting in the study when I got in.

“Did you learn anything?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I grimaced, “what a poor slob of a writer I am.”

“You wrote in Florida?”

“Oh sure—reams and reams—sentimental slop, I’m sure.”

“Let me see it.”

I opened my suitcase and tossed him my draft of In the Cold Ground.

He sat by the fire leafing through it and I went on up to bed—I was completely drained.

The next morning, Harry was ecstatic. “You did it, Kent! I believe I’ve made a writer of you.”

“What are you talking about, Harry?”

“Your passion—the feeling in this book. It’s you Kent. It’s genuine, it’s deep and it’s real. Don’t you see? You just had to go and get your own pain. This is brilliant.”

It turns out Harry was right. The novel rocketed up the bestseller lists, doing even better than Cold As Death. Harry was as proud as if I were his son.

One day, just before Christmas, he called me aside.

“Our collaboration has been beneficial for both of us, Kent. You got me out of this house and opened up the world to me again. I’ve decided to move on.”

“You mean you’re going to the light?”

“Oh puhlease—not that rot! I’ve found another young writer to mentor. She’s delicious—even worse than you were. I’ve already thrown her book at the wall, so to speak.”

“Gee, that’s great, Harry—who is she?”

“Turns out she’s one of Hattie’s descendants—even looks like her—same auburn hair.”

“Um, remember Harry—you’re dead.”

“You don’t think I’d cultivate her for romantic purposes, do you? I’ll turn her into a Charlotte Bronte—she’s not like you, Kent, she writes romances.”

“Sounds like another best seller’s in the making.”

Harry paused and his eyes grew warm. “Don’t worry, Boy, I’ll come back and visit. She’s quite an attractive girl, really and you two might just hit it off.”

“So, you’re a matchmaker now, Harry?”

“Just let me give you a word of advice—don’t build a house to suit her tastes.”

“I won’t Harry. Actually, I’ve become quite fond of this one now, although it’s a bit big and lonely.”

Harry winked. “I have a feeling it won’t stay that way long.”

To be continued…

© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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