My Life as a Ghost Writer
It’s time to tell my own story
I never had time to be a writer. After all, I had my job at the FedEx/Kinko’s, I had church Sundays and Wednesdays, I had dogs to feed and walk, and then there are all the other little chores associated with living.
Who has the time to sit around and write down all their thoughts and feelings and memories? I sure didn’t.
Now all I have is time. Time and the burning desire to leave my mark on the literary world. Unfortunately, breaking into writing as a ghost has proved far more difficult than I thought it would be.
For one thing, there’s the simple act of… well… writing.
Now that I don’t have a physical form, I can’t hold a pen, let alone type. And then there’s the fact that my landlord threw out all my things — including my old desktop PC!
Even if I did have corporeal fingers to type with, I don’t know the password to the computer that the new family in my apartment has. I used to keep my password on a sticky note on the monitor, but they don’t do that.
Different strokes, I suppose.
Who has the time to sit around and write down all their thoughts and feelings and memories? I sure didn’t.
