Under Pressure
I sold desire for pennies a word. Chasing it costs more.
My first ghostwriting gigs consisted of firing off catchy product placement descriptions for major multinational retailers. I wrote copy that drove customers to add that fridge, hairdryer, or poly-blend sweater to their shopping carts. I’m sorry and you’re welcome.
The pay was meager and the only way I could possibly make these jobs worthwhile was to write fast and in massive quantities. Ghostwriters competed for these jobs and I would gobble up as many open assignments as I could.
The work should have been soul-crushing, but I never had enough time to reflect on the drudgery of it while I was on the clock. I was already operating on a condensed schedule: with a toddler in pre-K for a few hours a week, there was zero time to procrastinate or feel bad about the sorry state of my writing career. Kids gotta eat. Plus, I was addicted to the rush that came from writing quickly, accurately, and compellingly.
I write at my best when I'm bumping up against a deadline—I learned that writing product descriptions. Even now—that toddler is graduating high school next year— knowing I might miss one is enough to stop procrastinating and just write.
But, in truth, I despise putting off writing. I want as much time as possible to think and to tinker, and there’s no easy way to simulate the head rush of writing against the clock when I’m working on a 50,000-word manuscript—it’s simply not the same mindset.
The closest I can get to harnessing those sensations is regular physical exertion. I keep a reporter's notepad and pencil on my treadmill and in my running pack. I write so freely on days where I’ve had a good track workout or an early morning forest expedition. Even a walk can clear those cobwebs.
I need someone waiting on the other end. Without that, it's just me and the cats — no consequence, no clock. So I lace up my shoes and run until I can't think straight. Or until the words arrive so fast and formed that I must capture them before they disappear.
