Back in the early 1980s, I taught school under my good friend Curtis, who was then an Assistant Principal. Like me, he absorbed books by the dozens, and we spent hours discussing authors, books, and writing.
He knew I had dreams of getting published some day, and often encouraged me to finish a manuscript. Just one manuscript. “Finish the stinkin’ thing!”
We all know how that goes, but I started and abandoned a dozen ideas hammered out on an IBM Selectric typewriter. One manuscript even grew to seventy-five pages, and when I look back at it today (it’s still in the bottom drawer of my desk), I know why it died.
Years passed, and one day I got a newspaper column published and eventually self-syndicated those writings while his own career advanced.
He took a position as high school principal in one district, then assistant superintendent in another, and finally became superintendent of a small East Texas town before eventually coming back to Garland, Texas, the tenth largest district in the state.
I remained in Garland and had moved up as the assistant director of Communications and Public Relations. I was the guy on the front lines when things went wrong, and was the spokesperson for the district.
After I found myself again working under Curtis, we picked up where we left off and continued our talks about books and writing.
More than one lunch flew by as those conversations became more intense and in my case, somehow desperate. “I just want to get a book published. Just one.”
“You will.”
“It hasn’t happened yet. Look at us, were getting older by the minute and you’re getting gray headed.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Once, but there was some old guy there. Look, I think I’m missing out. Some day you and I’ll be in rocking chairs on the front porch, still talking about the works of other people. Then we’ll be gone and those books will still be on the shelves, maybe for generations. That’s what I want. A book on a shelf to tell a story, and to let people know I was here.”
“Don’t give up, then.”
“I never said I was giving up.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Shut up and pay the bill, boss.”
“You shut up and write.”
So I did. In 2011, my first novel was published, and in the ensuing years, there are more than a dozen on those shelves, with many more already written (waiting their turn to hit the shelves in the coming months and years), and right this minute, others contracted by two different publishers.
We’re both retired now and get together every couple of months. Curtis and I met for breakfast the other day and he grinned across the table, holding my book bearing the newest title which I signed to him. “Just one book, huh?”
“Yeah, and I made it.”
He sipped his coffee amid the smells of frying bacon and onions. He eyed me. “Now what?”
“What?”
“I know that look.”
I took a swallow from my mug. “I’ve been offered to ghost write a couple of novels.”
His eyebrow arched and he pushed his empty plate to the side. “You want to publish under another guy’s name?”
“No. I want the money that comes from publishing under another guy’s name.”
I outlined the deal and an unusual offer that would bring in even more than simple contract work.
He shook his head. “But your name wouldn’t be anywhere in those pages.”
“No.”
“You have a distinctive writing style. People will figure it out.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the point.”
“Aren’t you already writing under your real name for them?”
“Sure, but this is extra and those kinds of books just roll off without taking up too much time. I can write them, and still produce my Red River series, along with the new Cap Whitlatch westerns.”
“How many books a year is that?”
I sighed. “Three. Maybe four.”
“And how many standalone novels are you hammering out.”
“Two.”
“You can’t do it. You don’t have the time.”
“We’ll find out.”
He grinned down into his coffee. “And I remember when your dream was a single book on a shelf. Now you have a second career. I guess you need to get after that keyboard.”
So I’ve agreed to ghost write. I know half a dozen authors who’ve done the same thing. One is so prolific I was stunned by the number, and laughed aloud when he told me the names he wrote under. It’s been a great living for him, and he doesn’t care that his name is on just a few of them.
I look at the shelf to my left and my books under Reavis Z. Wortham take up most of the space. I have my wish, with many more to come.
But there’s the carrot out there that will swell my bank account.
Is that why we write?
Money?
Or is something else?




















