Five ways to work with a ghostwriter

In the public imagination, ghostwriting conjures something vaguely shady — a literary séance. Picture an invisible figure in fingerless gloves, typing your life story by candlelight while chain-smoking and muttering, “Tell me more about the IPO…”

The reality is less cloak-and-dagger and more like a long, occasionally awkward, occasionally magical professional marriage between someone with a story to tell and someone who knows how to tell it. And like any relationship, ghostwriting comes in many flavors — from casual flings to full-on civil unions.

For business leaders thinking about a memoir, it helps to know the different ways this can work. Because the model you choose will shape the timeline, the cost, and how much of you ends up on the page.

Here are the five most common ways memoir ghostwriting actually gets done:

1. The “As Told To” Model

High collaboration, shared credit

This is the buddy-cop movie version of memoir writing. You talk — a lot. The ghostwriter listens — also a lot. Dozens of conversations over coffee, Zoom, maybe even whiskey, where stories, lessons, and regrets spill out.

The ghostwriter takes this raw material, adds structure, themes, and punctuation, and voilà — a memoir. On the cover it might read: “by Jane Titan, as told to Some Poor Scribe.” Think of it as creative joint custody.

2. The Deep-Dive Architect

Significant collaboration, author credit

Here the ghostwriter becomes part interviewer, part therapist, part structural engineer. After dozens of hours together, they know your leadership philosophy, your childhood trauma, and your favorite single malt.

You supply the life lived. The ghostwriter builds the house and paints it in your colors. You get full author credit; they get a grateful mention in the acknowledgments — right after your dog, your assistant, and the barista at your corner café.

3. The Content Shaper & Voice Mimic

Moderate collaboration, author credit

Let’s say you’ve already produced a mountain of material — speeches, memos, blog posts, commencement addresses. The ghostwriter’s job is to dig through the rubble, salvage the gems, and assemble them into something that reads like a book instead of a filing cabinet.

There may be a few interviews, but most of the work is about shaping and smoothing, creating a single, seamless voice. The result: a book that sounds like you on your best day, after two cups of coffee and a good editor.

4. The Heavy-Lifting Rewriter

Lower collaboration, author credit

Maybe you’ve drafted 30,000 words. Or maybe you’ve drafted 300 Post-it notes. Either way, you’ve said what you want to say — sort of.

Enter the ghostwriter with a machete and a thesaurus. They cut, tighten, and polish until the story gleams. You did the heavy emotional lifting; they did the heavy literary lifting. You still get the credit. They quietly go lie down in a dark room.

5. The Invisible Hand

Minimal collaboration, author credit

This is the true ghost. You send over a few bullet points, hop on a couple of calls, and then disappear into your private jet, secure in the knowledge that someone else is crafting your book.

These projects are common among very busy, very private leaders who want a legacy piece, not a confessional. The ghost gets no public credit, just a handshake, a check, and possibly an NDA longer than the manuscript itself.

Choosing What Works for You

Like any relationship, ghostwriting partnerships work best when both parties know what they’re getting into. The wrong match can be miserable — the “just edit my notes” arrangement that morphs into a year-long excavation, or the deep-dive project that fizzles when the author suddenly says, “Can you just take it from here?”

So before you start, get clear on two things:

·      Your end goal. Do you want to teach, to process, to build a legacy, to market yourself — or some mix of all four?

·      Your level of involvement. Do you want to be in the trenches with your ghostwriter, or would you rather outsource and focus on your business?

The clearer you are about what you want, the smoother the collaboration will go — and the more likely you’ll end up with a book that feels true to you and worth putting your name on.

A Final Word

Ghostwriting isn’t shady, and it isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s simply a way to turn lived experience into something lasting.

The best partnerships work because both sides know the arrangement — and respect it. Whether you’re looking for a buddy-cop collaboration, a deep-dive architect, or a discreet invisible hand, the right match can turn your story into a book that sounds like you — only better.

Why leaders miss their own best stories

When Joan Didion encountered a five-year-old stoned on LSD in 1967 Haight-Ashbury, she didn't react with horror. She didn't clutch her pearls or call Child Protective Services. Years later, reflecting on that scene, she simply said it was "gold."

And not in the sense of "that was a lovely parenting moment." Gold, as in: This is the scene that holds the weight, the contradiction, the dark heart of the whole story. It was a moment that made the piece inevitable.

That's what writers look for. Ghostwriters especially. I live for the moment when a client, almost in passing, drops something that makes my ears perk up like a dog who just heard the word bacon. It might be a throwaway anecdote, a moment they barely remember. But to me? Narrative gold.

The Antennae Are Always Up

In leadership ghostwriting, these moments matter more than anything. As the New Yorker's Susan Orlean once put it, good writers develop "antennae for the significant detail." I'm trained to notice when a client's voice shifts. When they pause midsentence. When they offhandedly mention something like promoting a janitor to department head and breeze right past it like it's no big deal.

But it is a big deal. Because that moment—that very human, very real moment—is what readers will remember long after they've forgotten your five-point leadership framework.

I'm like an anthropologist, if anthropologists had to work on deadline and couldn't expense their fieldwork drinks. I show up with notebooks (or Zoom transcripts), sift through your stories, and look for what glimmers beneath the surface.

Why Leaders Miss Their Own Best Stuff

It's not that executives aren't thoughtful people. Three things work against them:

They're trained to move forward, not linger. They're fluent in vision, mission, and metrics—but often tone-deaf to the quiet moments that shaped who they are.

They suffer from story blindness. When you've lived through something, you stop noticing its narrative potential. It's like being immune to your own company's jargon—you think everyone understands what you mean by "synergistic optimization," but the rest of us just hear noise.

They undervalue vulnerability. Which is understandable. They've built careers on control, poise, and polish. But books don't reward polish. Books reward truth. Readers want the real story—especially the one you didn't plan to tell.

What feels mundane to them—a tough conversation, a botched presentation, a personal meltdown in the Tokyo hotel bar—gets mentally filed under "stuff that happened," not "stuff that belongs in a book."

What Gold Actually Looks Like

Narrative gold doesn't mean a helicopter crash or a courtroom scandal. (Though, if you have those, I'll definitely use them.) It's more often the moment you considered quitting. The time your mentor dressed you down—and was right. The late-night email you regret sending, or the one you're glad you did.

It's the story that makes readers lean forward. Not because it's flashy, but because it's honest.

J. R. Moehringer, the ghostwriter behind Open and Spare, calls this the "vein of gold." For Andre Agassi, it was the shocking revelation that he hated tennis. That one admission reshaped the entire book. It turned a sports memoir into a meditation on identity, expectation, and freedom.

That's the alchemy. One line, properly framed, can carry an entire chapter—or the whole damn book.

Why These Moments Matter So Much

Here's the thing: business books packed with platitudes don't exactly fly off the shelves. You can only read so many variations of "innovate or die" before you start rooting for extinction.

But when a book starts with a moment of failure, regret, or transformation, we pay attention. Stories stick. Theories don't.

You don't need hard numbers to prove this—just walk into a bookstore and pick up the leadership bestsellers. You'll see this pattern over and over again. They start with something real. Something personal. Something just a little bit messy.

And here's the business case: these authentic moments directly translate to book sales, speaking fees, and media coverage. Anecdotes are what land you the book deal. They're what make the media bites quotable. They're what give your ideas emotional weight, so readers not only understand your insight but feel it.

Look at Shoe Dog by Phil Knight. The book's success wasn't built on Nike's financial metrics—it was built on Knight's story of almost going bankrupt, of betraying partners, of nearly losing everything multiple times. Those vulnerable moments made the business lessons unforgettable.

Without those moments, your memoir risks sounding like a really long LinkedIn post with better punctuation.

How I Find the Gold

Finding these stories isn't always easy. Clients don't walk into our first meeting and drop their soul on the table. Sometimes it takes three interviews, two espressos, and a full conversation about their golden retriever before we get there.

In fact, some of the best material surfaces at the end of a call—after we've wrapped, when they're "just remembering one last thing." Or while they're walking out the door. Or when they send an email later that night with the subject line "Not sure if this is useful . . ."

It's almost always useful.

I have a few tricks to nudge things along. I'll ask for day-by-day playbacks of big events. I'll ask about their biggest regrets. Or when they first realized they weren't bulletproof. I might ask what the office smelled like during layoffs. (If that doesn't trigger a memory, nothing will.)

And I ask clients to journal between interviews—not because I'm a fan of homework, but because it often jogs something they haven't thought about in years. A memory that's been waiting patiently for the right time to surface.

Here's what I tell clients before our first interview: come prepared to be surprised by your own stories. The moment you dismiss as "probably not interesting" is often exactly what I'm looking for.

The Delicate Art of Story Surgery

Once I find these moments, I don't just plop them on the page and call it a day. I handle them with care. With context. With tone.

There's a fine line between powerful vulnerability and oversharing. Between honesty and therapy. My job is to walk that line—to preserve the truth of the moment while shaping it into something useful and beautiful.

That's where the real craft is. And the joy.

Because when you get it right—when the structure supports the story, when the voice is authentic, when the reader feels something—they don't just finish the book. They remember it. They recommend it. They see themselves in it.

And that's the point.

Treasure Isn't Always Where You Think

In the age of AI, when you can generate 60,000 words in three clicks and none of them feel alive, the human capacity to recognize this—this moment, this sentence, this story—is more valuable than ever.

Ghostwriting isn't just transcription. It's translation. It's the art of taking the messy, beautiful, complicated reality of someone's life and turning it into something that moves other people.

Sometimes, all it takes is a stray memory, a half-forgotten mistake, a pause in your voice that says more than a thousand keynote speeches. That's the gold. That's what I'm after.

If you're considering a memoir project, start paying attention to those throwaway moments right now. The ones you almost mention but don't. The stories that make you pause. The experiences you've never quite found the right words for.

Successful authors think like publishers

Picture this: you've spent eighteen months crafting your leadership memoir, drawing from twenty years of building companies, managing people, and learning expensive lessons. The manuscript reads like a cross between Good to Great and your favorite war stories from the C-suite. You're ready to become the next Malcolm Gladwell of management wisdom.

Then reality returns your call.

The first traditional publisher politely suggests you might want to consider self-publishing. The second doesn't bother with politeness. By the third rejection, you're wondering if your life story might work better as a cautionary tale about the dangers of ambition.

Here's what they're not telling you: your book probably doesn't suck. You probably just don't exist.

The Invisible Author Problem

In today's attention economy, where authority is measured in Google results and credibility means "someone's heard of you," your book isn't just a collection of hard-won insights. It's your flagship. Your proof of life. Your portable reputation that walks into rooms before you do.

It doesn't just chronicle what you've done—it announces that you're the person people should listen to about how it's done.

Think about the executive who lands keynotes not just because of their résumé but because they literally wrote the book on their industry. Or the consultant who doubles their fees postpublication—not because they got smarter overnight but because book authors are perceived as experts, not service providers.

A book gives you gravity. It pulls opportunities into your orbit that cold emails and networking breakfasts never could. But here's the paradox that breaks most would-be authors: even the best hybrid publishers won't touch your manuscript unless you bring an audience to the table.

They're not being snobs. They're being actuaries.

The Brutal Math of Modern Publishing

The numbers have all the charm of a root canal, but they tell the story. In 2023, more than 80 percent of self-published books sold fewer than 100 copies. The reason isn't quality—it's invisibility. Most authors lacked what publishing professionals call a "platform," which is industry speak for "people who know you exist and might conceivably buy your book."

Meanwhile, authors with even modest visibility—LinkedIn regulars who somehow make supply chain strategy sound riveting or podcast guests who've turned "failure" into a personal brand—routinely sell thousands of copies. Even when their books are, let's be honest, a little thin on breakthrough insights.

The lesson is as painful as it is clear: your book doesn't create your visibility. Your visibility creates your book's success.

Consider two manuscripts landing on a publisher's desk. One comes from a CEO with fifty thousand LinkedIn followers and a calendar full of podcast appearances. The other arrives from an equally brilliant but essentially invisible founder whose LinkedIn profile still mentions their BlackBerry expertise. Guess who gets the enthusiastic response?

Publishers aren't chasing talent anymore—they're chasing reduced risk and guaranteed distribution. A mediocre book with a strong platform will outsell a masterpiece with no audience. Every single time.

Publishers as Risk Managers

Here's what's really happening: hybrid publishers have become venture capitalists in tweed jackets. They're not charging upfront fees because they enjoy cashing checks from hopeful authors—though that probably doesn't hurt. They're hedging their bets on which writers are most likely to generate returns.

And they're betting on numbers, not narratives.

If you've got ten thousand newsletter subscribers who actually open your emails, a podcast audience that doesn't ghost you after the first episode, or a LinkedIn following that engages with something more substantial than "Great insight!"—you're in the conversation. If not, you're a long shot at best.

The smarter publishers understand something else: authors with platforms don't just sell books. They build empires. They spark media careers. They create intellectual property that keeps generating value long after the initial print run. These aren't one-off transactions—they're equity plays in human brands.

Even if you bypass publishers entirely and go the full DIY route, the same unforgiving arithmetic applies. Without a reliable way to reach readers beyond your holiday card list, your book will mostly sell to people who owe you money or share your DNA.

The Uncomfortable Truth about Quality versus Visibility

In the merciless mathematics of modern publishing, visibility beats quality almost every time. That's not fair, and it's definitely not what you want to hear after bleeding wisdom onto three hundred pages. But it's reality, and it's what separates successful authors from brilliant but ignored ones.

Your insights deserve readers. Your hard-won lessons deserve to find the people who need them. But those people can't buy what they don't know exists. Visibility isn't just helpful—it's the cover charge for entering the conversation.

This doesn't mean you need to become a social media performer or start a podcast about synergistic paradigm shifts. But it does mean you need to start showing up where your future readers already gather, sharing the ideas that will eventually fill your book's pages.

The Strategy Shift

The most successful business authors have figured out what publishers learned the hard way: the conversation starts long before the book gets written. They're not just authors—they're media companies with book divisions.

They understand that writing the book is only half the job. The other half is building the audience that makes the book matter. They think like publishers because, in many ways, they've become publishers. They control their own distribution, nurture their own audiences, and create their own opportunities.

The question isn't whether your ideas are worth sharing—it's whether anyone will be listening when you finally do. And that's a question only you can answer, one reader at a time.

Can AI really write your book? Yes and no.

Let's cut to the chase: you've seen the spam. "AI writes your memoir in minutes!" "Upload your memories, download your legacy!" And you're wondering—quite reasonably—why you'd pay a human $75,000 to do what a computer claims it can do for fifty bucks a month.

Fair question. I wondered the same thing when ChatGPT first went viral. For about ten minutes, I seriously considered switching careers. (Alpaca farming seemed promising until I remembered I'm allergic to hay.)

But here's what I've learned after two years of watching AI memoir tools flood the market: there's a difference between generating 250 pages of words and creating a book that someone actually wants to read.

The problem with perfect efficiency

AI is spectacularly good at what it does. Feed it your career timeline, and it'll spit out 60,000 words of perfectly serviceable prose faster than you can say "disruptive innovation." The sentences will be grammatically correct. The chapters will follow a logical progression. It might even throw in some inspirational quotes about leadership.

What it won't do is notice that you got quiet when you mentioned your first layoffs. Or ask why you still keep that rejection letter from 1987 in your desk drawer. Or wonder what your wife really thought when you mortgaged the house to fund your startup.

AI works with the data you give it. But the best stories live in the spaces between the data—in the pause before you answer, the detail you almost didn't mention, the moment when your voice changes and you realize you've never told anyone this part.

The questions that matter

A client once mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that he used to practice his board presentations in his car on the way to work. Not a big deal, right? Just a throwaway detail.

Except when I asked why the car, he got quiet. Turns out his father had done the same thing—rehearsing sales calls while commuting to a job he hated. My client had spent thirty years building a company so he'd never have to practice presentations in parking lots like his dad did. But there he was, doing exactly the same thing.

That's your book right there. Not the IPO story or the acquisition tale—the human story about fathers and sons and the fears we inherit without knowing it.

AI would have filed "practices in car" under "preparation habits" and moved on. It can't get curious. It doesn't know which details matter until someone explains why they matter.

The authenticity problem

You've built something significant. You've made hard decisions, survived failures, learned lessons worth sharing. But here's the thing about wisdom: it's personal. It comes with texture, timing, your particular way of seeing the world.

AI can mimic your voice—sort of. It'll study your emails and blog posts and produce sentences that sound vaguely like you. But can it capture the way you pause before saying "frankly"? The specific reason you hate the phrase "circle back"? The story behind your weird obsession with handwritten notes?

More importantly, can it help you figure out why those details matter to someone who wasn't there?

Your future readers don't need another generic business memoir full of the same leadership platitudes they've read a dozen times. They need your version—the one that explains not just what you did, but how it felt, what it cost, and what you'd tell your younger self if you could.

What AI does well (Because I'm not a Luddite)

Look, I use AI tools. They're brilliant for transcribing interviews, generating chapter outlines, and coming up with seventeen different ways to say "we scaled rapidly" without sounding like every other tech memoir ever written.

If you want a book-shaped object for your conference booth or a rough draft to get your thoughts organized, AI can absolutely deliver. It's fast, cheap, and increasingly competent at basic narrative structure.

But if you want something that makes people miss their subway stop because they're too absorbed in your story to look up—that's still human territory.

The trust factor

Here's what I've noticed: clients aren't really buying writing services. They're buying permission to be honest about their stories. They're paying for someone to sit across from them and say, "That thing you're embarrassed about? That's actually the most interesting part."

You can't download that from an app. You can't prompt-engineer your way to the moment when someone finally admits they're terrified their success was mostly luck, or that they still dream about the company they sold too early, or that their biggest regret isn't a business decision at all.

Those conversations don't happen with algorithms. They happen when you trust someone enough to say the things you've never said out loud.

The bottom line

I'm not telling you AI is worthless. It's not. But I am telling you that the difference between a book people skim and one they remember has nothing to do with processing power.

It has to do with the questions you ask, the stories you choose to tell, and the way you tell them. It's about finding the thread that connects your grandfather's work ethic to your management style, or explaining why that failed product launch taught you more than three successful ones.

That's human work. Messy, inefficient, occasionally brilliant human work.

So by all means, try the AI route if you want. Upload your resume, answer the prompts, see what comes out. But when you're ready to write something that sounds like you—and only you—give me a call.

I'll be here, asking the questions robots don't know how to ask, helping you figure out which parts of your story are worth telling and why anyone should care.

Because in the end, that's what you're really paying for: someone who knows the difference between data and wisdom, between efficiency and truth, between generating content and creating something that matters.

Not convinced? Fair enough. But before you go the robot route, ask yourself this: would you rather have a book that could have been written by anyone, or one that could only have been written by you?

Self-publish without losing your dignity

You’ve spent decades building businesses, managing teams, navigating recessions, and probably getting talked into at least one regrettable leadership retreat. Somewhere along the line, you picked up a few hard-won lessons—and now you want to put them in a book. Good call. The world doesn’t need another bland TED Talk in print, but it could use your story told honestly and well.

So you start writing. And then you stop. And then you Google: “How do I publish a book?”

That’s where things get slippery.

Because unless you’re a celebrity, an ex-spy, or a disgraced politician with a tell-all manuscript and a documentary deal, traditional publishing probably isn’t in the cards. That’s not cynicism—it’s math. Traditional publishers want either fame or a guaranteed audience, and ideally both. They are not, as a rule, looking for a well-lived life and some sharp insights on management.

But here’s the good news: you don’t need them. Self-publishing used to be code for “this wasn’t good enough for the real thing,” but that stigma has largely vanished—thanks in part to smart people like you deciding to skip the gatekeepers and build their own gates. The challenge, though, is that now you’re the publisher, too—and guess what? That means you’re also the project manager, art director, production supervisor, and marketing department.

Let’s take a look at what that actually entails, without the usual hype or hand-holding.

DIY vs. Hybrid: Choose Your Own Adventure

If you self-publish, you’ve got two options. One is to do it yourself—hire your own editor, designer, formatter, and figure out the rest as you go. This is the “build your own house from salvaged barn wood” approach. Charming. In theory.

The other option is to use a hybrid publisher. Think of it as hiring a competent general contractor: you pay them, and they coordinate all the trades. A good hybrid will manage editing, design, ISBNs, formatting, and even basic marketing setup. You’ll still have to write the checks and make decisions, but you won’t be up at 2 a.m. wondering what DPI your cover image needs to be.

If you like control, go DIY. If you like sleep, consider hybrid.

What Self-Publishing Really Involves (a.k.a. The Part Where Most People Get Tired)

Self-publishing isn’t just clicking “upload” and waiting for your literary Pulitzer. It’s a sequence of actual jobs—some creative, some technical, and some just plain tedious. You’ll need a well-written manuscript (I can help with that), professional editing, proofreading, cover design, and formatting. You’ll need ISBNs (they cost money), files in multiple formats (EPUB, PDF, and the cursed MOBI), and a strategy for distribution. Then you’ll need to market the thing, which is roughly as fun as selling a timeshare in Tucson.

You don’t need to be an expert. But you do need to respect the process. Because readers can smell amateur hour from a mile away. Especially the ones who write Amazon reviews with the same fervor most people reserve for jury duty.

E-Book or Print? The Eternal Struggle

You’ll need both. E-books are easy to distribute and great for reaching far-flung readers. Print books have presence—you can hand them out at events, mail them to clients, or display them in your office like a trophy that says “I survived the publishing process.”

Print-on-demand services (like KDP and IngramSpark) let you avoid the classic garage-full-of-unsold-books scenario. They only print when someone orders. It’s modern. It’s efficient. It’s also a bit more expensive per book, but you won’t be buried in unsold inventory if the book doesn’t become a surprise bestseller in Uzbekistan.

Timelines, Budgets, and Other Mood Killers

Let’s talk time. From the moment your manuscript is final, it will likely take three to six months to get everything edited, designed, formatted, uploaded, reviewed, printed, and available for sale. Can you go faster? Of course. Should you? Only if you also cut your own hair with hedge clippers.

As for cost, you can self-publish a professional-grade business memoir for $7,000 to $15,000. That includes editing, design, formatting, ISBNs, and some basic web presence and marketing tools. If someone tells you they can do it for $500, they’re either lying or plan to staple it by hand.

Marketing is its own beast. If you build it, they will not come—not unless you give them a reason. That means building an author website, getting some decent headshots, showing up on LinkedIn with something more insightful than “Here’s what I had for lunch,” and convincing a few people to leave reviews that don’t sound like they were written by your cousin.

When It’s Time to Pay for a Grown-Up

If the idea of managing all this gives you a rash—or if you’d rather spend your time running a business, flying helicopters, or learning how to make decent espresso—a hybrid publisher might be a good bet.

You’ll pay more up front—usually $10,000 to $30,000—but you’ll get a team, a timeline, and a deliverable. Just make sure you pick one with a solid track record and a whiff of editorial standards. Avoid anyone who guarantees bestseller status or tries to upsell you on bookmarks.

The Bottom Line

You’ve worked too hard for too long to put your name on something half-baked. Self-publishing gives you the tools to tell your story, your way—with polish, professionalism, and purpose. But it’s not free, and it’s not fast. It’s a project. A meaningful one.

You already know how to run a company, build a brand, and deal with people who don’t read instructions. Publishing your book will feel familiar in all the best and worst ways.

The key is not to confuse “self-publishing” with “do everything yourself with no budget and a prayer.” Invest where it counts—editing, design, and distribution. And when in doubt, get help. Preferably before you’ve spent two weeks trying to understand Amazon’s bleed requirements.

Because if you do it right, this book won’t just tell your story. It’ll reflect who you are: smart, experienced, and still not afraid of a challenge.

And hey—if nothing else, you’ll finally have something to hand people who ask, “So, what exactly do you do?”

What’s a "hook"? And why do you need one?

It's one of those literary-sounding terms that reeks of focus groups and PowerPoint presentations—the kind of word that makes serious writers reach for their flasks and mutter darkly about the commodification of art. But before you dismiss it as publishing-industry pabulum, consider this: the hook is the literary equivalent of showing up to a job interview wearing pants. Technically optional, but you'll regret skipping it.

The hook is why anyone—and I mean anyone—gives your memoir more than three seconds of consideration. It's what separates your life story from the towering pile of therapeutic journal entries masquerading as literature that arrives at publishing houses every day like so much emotional junk mail.

Picture this: An overworked editor sits in a cubicle that smells faintly of desperation and burnt coffee, staring at a stack of manuscripts higher than her student loan debt. Your memoir is somewhere in that pile, competing with My Journey Through Gluten Sensitivity and How I Found Myself While Reorganizing My Closet. What makes her pause at yours instead of using it as a coaster?

The hook, my friend. The hook.

Now, perhaps you're thinking, "But my life is a hook! I survived three divorces, started a kombucha empire, discovered my birth parents were CIA operatives, and learned to tango in Buenos Aires while battling clinical depression!" Congratulations. You've lived an interesting life. So have roughly seven billion other people, half of whom are currently pecking away at memoirs of their own.

The question isn't whether your life is interesting—it's whether you can make it irresistible. Can you distill your particular brand of beautiful disaster into something that makes a complete stranger think, "I absolutely must know how this person didn't end up in federal prison or a psychiatric ward"?

Because here's what nobody tells aspiring memoirists: the publishing world is littered with exquisitely crafted books about perfectly fascinating lives that sold exactly seventeen copies (twelve to relatives, three to the author's therapist, and two mysterious purchases that were probably accounting errors). These books committed the cardinal sin of literary commerce—they were merely good.

Good doesn't cut it anymore. Good is a participation trophy in a competition where only the gold medalists get shelf space.

Your hook is your literary red dress in a room full of beige pantsuits. It might be an absurd situation you survived (like explaining cryptocurrency to your grandmother while she's having a stroke). It could be an unlikely juxtaposition (former Marine drill sergeant turned preschool teacher). Or it might be a universal experience—death, love, failure—told through such a specific and surprising lens that readers feel like they're seeing it for the first time.

The hook doesn't require you to have been kidnapped by circus performers or to have discovered the Lost City of Atlantis in your backyard koi pond. But it does demand that you identify what makes your story sing instead of simply existing.

Think of it this way: if you were cornered at a cocktail party by someone's insufferable nephew and forced to summarize your memoir in thirty seconds, what would make him forget about checking his phone? What detail would make him interrupt you with "Wait, what?"

If you can't answer that question, you don't have a hook. You have a diary with delusions of grandeur.

Your hook is the reason someone will choose your book over a Netflix binge or a therapeutic scroll through social media. It's the promise that reading your story will be worth their time—and in our current economy of attention, that's asking for more than their firstborn child.

So what's your hook? What's the thread in your story that's so unexpected, so perfectly absurd, or so achingly human that it makes people lean forward instead of politely backing away? What makes your particular midlife crisis, spiritual awakening, or family dysfunction worth forty-seven hours of a stranger's life?

Find it. Polish it until it gleams. And for the love of all that's publishable, don't hide it behind three chapters of your childhood in Cleveland.

Remember: in a world where everyone has a story, only some have hooks. Be one of the some.

What makes a memoir a great beach read?

When clients come to me with a memoir idea, they often arrive armed with what I call the broad strokes. The outer arc. The résumé version of their life story: “I grew up poor, worked hard, rose through the ranks, and became a senior partner at a major law firm.” Or: “I started in the warehouse and ended up as CEO.”

A memoir isn’t a padded LinkedIn bio with a few colorful anecdotes tossed in like garnish. It’s not a chronological highlight reel of accomplishments. However impressive,  that’s not a story—not yet. A memoir isn't a chronological highlight reel with personality sprinkled on top.

But that’s not why people pick up a memoir on a long flight or a lazy afternoon. They want something more immersive. Something that surprises them, moves them, maybe even helps them make sense of their own mess. A memoir—like a good novel—isn’t just about what happened. It’s about what changed.

What Happened vs. What It Meant

Think of it this way: the external story is the track. The internal story is the train. Without the track, you go nowhere. But without the train, there’s nothing moving the reader forward.

Let’s say your outer arc is, “I moved from Dallas to New York, joined a start-up, and built a thriving company.” Okay, that’s the infrastructure. But your memoir lives in the inner arc: “I struggled to believe I was good enough. I lost friends. I found boundaries. I discovered what kind of leader I didn’t want to be.” That’s the emotional engine. That’s why someone turns the page when the sun is shining and the poolside bar is open.

Show the Struggle, Not Just the Success

One of the biggest misconceptions I run into is the idea that memoir is a stage for showcasing success. But celebration without struggle? That’s not a story—it’s a PowerPoint deck with better lighting.

Every memorable memoir contains tension. Doubt. A dash of chaos. Some Seinfeld-level awkwardness. Maybe even a few nights of soul-searching that didn’t end with perfect clarity or a TED Talk-worthy insight. The truth is, readers don’t care if you made partner. They care what it cost you to get there. What you risked. What you regret. What cracked you open along the way.

You don’t need Everest or scandal to qualify. But you do need to let the reader in. Not just into what you did—but into what you felt.

Details Are Everything

Here’s the part where most business leaders get tripped up: details.

You lived it, so you assume the significance is obvious. But to the reader? The power is in the specifics. The scratchy chartreuse blazer you wore to your first job interview, sleeves too short and confidence thinner still. The silence in the room when your mentor said, “You’re ready—but the team isn’t.” The moment you stared out the window and knew something had to give—even if you didn’t know what yet.

Those aren’t just memories. They’re scenes. And scenes are what stick.

Paradoxically, the more specific you are, the more universal your story becomes. A thousand people have become CEOs. But no one else did it with your dad’s advice ringing in their ears, your impostor syndrome lurking at every promotion, your heartbreak wrapped around your best decision.

The Takeaway

If you’re thinking about writing a memoir, start with the big picture. But don’t stop there. Ask yourself: What changed me? What surprised me? What still wakes me up at 3 a.m.?

That’s the story. That’s what people read under umbrellas and beside bedside lamps. That’s what they carry with them.

And if you’re wondering how to shape all that into something with momentum and meaning—well, that’s where I come in. If you’d like to talk about turning the arc of your life into a story people can’t put down, I’d love to hear from you.

It’s not just what happened, but how it felt

“Please tell me a little about your wife and how she influenced your career.”

“I met her. We fell in love. She was with me every step of the way. What else can I say?”

That was my client’s answer. He was, thankfully, pulling my leg—but not entirely. I’ve heard countless variations of that same shrug in sentence form, especially in early memoir conversations. These are accomplished people—founders, leaders, the kind who’ve made bold decisions and lived to tell the tale. But ask them about the people who made it all possible? The turning points that broke them open and remade them? You get something that sounds like a closing argument delivered by a man on his fourth bourbon.

It’s not that they lack feeling or reflection. It’s just that most of us aren’t used to talking about our lives in emotionally intimate terms. Not in the day-to-day grind of business. Not at cocktail parties. Certainly not on the record.

But something happens in the process of writing a memoir. After a few sessions, clients start to go deeper. Not because I prod or pry (although I do ask the occasional impertinent question), but because they realize how good it feels. Writing a memoir, at its best, is less like filing a report and more like revisiting your life from the inside. The texture of it. The stakes. You begin to remember what it felt like—not just what happened.

Which brings us to detail.

The best novelists and filmmakers live by the old credo: show, don’t tell. A good memoir is no different. Don’t tell us your father was intimidating—show us his knuckles drumming the kitchen table at breakfast. Don’t say you were terrified—let us feel the weight of the phone in your hand as you waited for the oncologist to call.

You’re not writing a Wikipedia entry. You’re inviting readers to walk the journey with you. To feel the uncertainty, the exhilaration, the heartbreak, the wonder. The more vividly you can summon it—the more precisely you can describe the light in the room, the lump in your throat—the more powerful your story becomes.

A great memoir isn’t about what happened. It’s about what it meant. And meaning, inconveniently enough, lives in the details.

Why Authors Skip Traditional Publishers

Not long ago, if you were a successful entrepreneur or executive with a story to tell—or wisdom to share—you figured you'd need a traditional book deal. You know, the whole shebang: New York publisher, leather elbow patches, a book tour that looked suspiciously like a vacation, and maybe a fresh headshot leaning casually on your knuckles.

That was the dream. Still is, for some. For most business leaders today, though, it's about as likely as retiring at 40 or getting through airport security without disrobing. Because the publishing world, like everything else worth doing, has changed. And, spoiler alert, not necessarily in your favor.

Let's be blunt: Unless your name lights up a room or trends on Twitter like a celebrity chef's latest meltdown, the odds of landing a traditional book deal for your business memoir or leadership guide are about as slim as a supermodel's lunch. Publishers want sure bets, not smart people with genuinely good ideas. Unless you're a celebrity, a politician, or an influencer with a fanbase the size of a midwestern city (and the accompanying attention span), you're not a sure bet. Sorry. It's nothing personal.

And even if, through some divine act of algorithmic generosity, a publisher does pick you up, you may find the experience less "velvet rope glamour" and more "whiff of shared cubicle air."

Publishers Used to Find Audiences. Now They Want You to Bring One.

There was a time, bless its quaint little heart, when a good idea and a sharp manuscript would do the trick. Publishers were cultural gatekeepers, self-appointed arbiters of taste. They prided themselves on spotting brilliance in the wild and nurturing it into the world. Think of them as the literary equivalent of a particularly discerning truffle pig.

Today? They're risk-averse corporate shops with spreadsheets instead of instincts. They want to know how many people already follow you, how many speaking gigs you've booked, and whether your email list could fill a stadium. They're not asking if the book's any good; they're asking if it's marketable with zero effort on their part. It's not personal—it's just math. Miserable, soul-crushing math.

Publishing is expensive, editors are stretched thinner than a budget airline's legroom, bookstores are shrinking faster than your patience at a DMV, and attention spans are dissolving like cotton candy in a rainstorm. In this delightful environment, your thoughtful, well-crafted book about building a values-driven business isn't just competing with other business books. It's up against celebrity diet tips, murder podcasts turned memoirs, and whatever profound pronouncement popped out of TikTok's mouth last week. Good luck.

Self-Publishing Is Not What It Used to Be.

Here's where the plot twists, and you can finally put away your tissues. Self-publishing, once the literary equivalent of showing up to a board meeting in Crocs and a Hawaiian shirt, is now, believe it or not, a badge of strategic savvy.

Today, self-publishing can look just like traditional publishing—only faster, smarter, and considerably more lucrative. You hire a pro editor who knows the difference between a semicolon and a speed bump, a designer who knows the difference between Helvetica and heartbreak (it's subtle but important), and you distribute through Amazon, Apple Books, and everywhere else people still buy words. You keep your rights. You keep your profits. You keep your dignity. It's quite civilized, really.

And you join a growing, rather exclusive club. Consider the evidence:

Rich Dad, Poor Dad by Robert Kiyosaki started as a self-published book. Yes, that one. So did Eric Ries’ The Lean Startup. Seth Godin’s Purple Cow was initially self-published through his own imprint before becoming a marketing bible. Chris Guillebeau’s The $100 Startup and Mark Schaefer’s The Tao of Twitter followed similar routes—no publishing house, no begging for permission, just authors betting on themselves. And winning. Big.

These books didn’t just make money. They built movements, launched consulting empires, and landed their authors on stages around the world. The payoff came not from some fancy spine logo, but from speed to market, message control, and a product that worked as hard as its author. Take notes.

Why This Matters More in Business Than Anywhere Else

Business books are time-sensitive by nature. Wait two years to get published, and your brilliant insights might age like unrefrigerated yogurt. The market's moved on, the trend's cooled, and you're stuck explaining what "blockchain" meant in 2022. Nobody wants to be that guy.

Self-publishing gives you speed. You write it, you shape it, and you release it while your ideas are still ahead of the curve. You skip the committee meetings, the endless second-guessing, and the 18-month runway that feels suspiciously like a ditch. You get it out there now—where it can start doing what business books do best: open doors, win clients, elevate your brand, and start conversations that actually matter.

But Wait, Aren’t Publishers Supposed to Help?

In theory, yes. In reality? Not so much.

Today’s publishers expect you to do most of the heavy lifting. You'll probably hire your own developmental editor anyway, because "stretched thin" is an understatement. You’ll build your own marketing plan. You’ll hustle for podcast interviews, LinkedIn posts, keynote bookings. Which begs the question: if you’re already running the race, why not hold your own stopwatch? And keep the prize money, while you're at it.

Hybrid Publishers Have Stepped Into This Gap

Enter hybrid publishers—companies like Greenleaf Book Group and Amplify Publishing. These are full-service outfits that handle editing, design, and distribution—like traditional publishers used to, except they let you keep the rights and most of the money. You pay upfront, sure, but you get the final say. You get bookstore placement if you want it. And you get to move on your own schedule. It’s essentially self-publishing for grownups with important things to do.

Plenty of serious authors take this route. Hal Elrod’s The Miracle Morning and Mike Michalowicz’s Profit First were both initially self-published through hybrid models before becoming runaway hits. The upfront investment—typically between $15,000 and $50,000—can feel steep, like a really nice watch, but for many entrepreneurs, it's a marketing expense with a long-term payoff. Think of it as investing in an asset, not just buying a lottery ticket.

And the return? It’s not just in royalties—those are usually beer money, even with a traditional deal. The real payoff comes in leads, credibility, keynote invitations, podcast guest spots, investor interest, and yes, actual business growth. A well-written, well-placed book can do more for your career than a dozen networking breakfasts and twice as many LinkedIn posts. It becomes your calling card, your story, your legacy—on your terms.

Which, if we’re being honest, is probably why you’re writing it in the first place.

Why do smart leaders hire ghostwriters?

Let’s get this out of the way up front: Yes, you could probably write your own memoir.

You’re articulate. You’ve built companies, led teams, raised capital, launched products, survived board meetings, and maybe even your mother-in-law’s opinions. You’re a high-functioning, relentlessly competent grown-up.

And yet, here we are.

You’re either stuck staring at a blinking cursor… or buried under a pile of voice memos with names like “Book Stuff 2 – Really Good This Time.” So let’s talk about why even brilliant leaders—people who can deliver keynote addresses without blinking and dismantle an investor’s argument in 17 seconds flat—hire someone like me to help tell their story.

First, the dirty little secret: Most of the best business books weren't written solo—they were collaborations. Think about it: Elon Musk, Sheryl Sandberg..." This makes it feel less like a list and more like evidence..

All fantastic storytellers. None of them sat down, poured themselves a cup of herbal tea, and spent six months crafting perfect prose between conference calls. Their memoirs were crafted in collaboration with professional writers—ghostwriters, co-authors, “writing partners,” or in JFK’s case, a guy named Ted Sorensen who just happened to “help choose the words.”

As Ronald Reagan said of his own autobiography: “I hear it’s a great book. I mean to read it one day.”

So why do smart people with good stories bring in a collaborator?

1. Because Time Is Not an Abundant Resource

You’re already running at 110% capacity. Writing a book—not a thought-leader blog post, but a real-deal, page-turning, bestseller-worthy memoir—takes hundreds of hours. Interviews, outlines, structure, pacing, editing, revising, and then editing again because you changed your mind about Chapter 4 at 2 a.m.

Writing is a job. Ghostwriters treat it that way. If it takes you 18 months to finish a book part-time, but I can help you finish it in nine—with only 30 hours of your time? That’s not a luxury. That’s leverage.

2. Because Living Through a Story Doesn’t Mean You Know How to Tell It

This one’s tough to swallow. You know your life. But that’s the problem. You know all of it.

When you try to write about your own life, you’re too close to the action—like trying to direct a movie while playing the lead and working the boom mic. It’s why your draft reads more like a LinkedIn post than a memoir. You know what happened, but not always what matters.

A ghost helps you pull back. We find the story arc, the tension, the part where you almost quit, and the moment that quietly changed everything—even if you didn’t realize it at the time. We build a story that works on the page, not just in your memory.

3. Because You Make It Look Too Easy

This is the trap of the high-performer. You do hard things so instinctively, you forget how remarkable they are. You skip over the juicy parts because they didn’t feel hard at the time. You tell me, “Oh, and then I built a global company,” the way most people say, “And then I stopped for gas.”

A ghost knows how to say, “Wait—go back. You did what?” We slow the story down, unpack it, and show readers why what you did mattered—and how you did it.

4. Because You’re Not Just Telling a Story—You’re Building a Legacy

Let’s be honest: you’re not writing this book just to reminisce. You want it to build your personal brand. Cement your thought leadership. Inspire your team. Land speaking gigs. Win over a few skeptics. Or maybe, finally explain to your grandkids what you were doing all those years with the Bluetooth headset glued to your ear.

A ghostwriter helps turn your experience into a cohesive, compelling book that actually gets read—not just printed.

And here’s the kicker: we make it sound like you. The best ghostwriting doesn’t sound “written.” It sounds like you’re telling a story over dinner, minus the rambling and with tighter punchlines.

“But I can write just fine.”

The question isn't whether you can write. It's whether you want to spend the next year learning to be a professional writer—or whether you'd rather spend that time being a professional leader. Writing a book takes a different kind of stamina than writing pitch decks and performance reviews. It’s not about being articulate. It’s about sustaining narrative momentum over 60,000 words without losing the plot—or your mind.

That’s what professional writers do. Not because you can’t. But because you don’t have to.

The question isn't whether you can write. It's whether you want to spend the next year learning to be a professional writer—or whether you'd rather spend that time being a professional leader

What a Ghostwriter Actually Does

We interview you—over Zoom, in person, via notes, whatever works. We ask nosy questions, draw out stories you haven’t thought about in years, and help you see patterns in your life you didn’t even know were there. Then we write like hell. You read, revise, and put your fingerprints on every chapter. And somewhere in that mess of drafts, deadlines, and laughter, your story becomes a book.

Bottom Line: It’s Still Your Book

You’re the author. We’re just the ghost in the machine—polishing the prose, sharpening the structure, and keeping the wheels from falling off halfway through Chapter Seven. You get the credit. We get the satisfaction of making it sing.

So no, you don’t need a ghostwriter. But if you want to finish a book that truly reflects who you are—sharp, honest, engaging, real—it might just be the smartest partnership you ever strike.

Ready to turn your story into a book that does justice to the life you've built? Let’s talk.

The best business books are memoirs

We’ve been conditioned to think that a business book should read like a cross between a TED Talk and a quarterly report. Lots of bullet points. Bold headings. Key takeaways. You know the drill.

But here’s the thing: nobody lives in bullet points. They live it in stories. In scenes. In crises narrowly averted and bold moves that didn’t look so bold at the time. That’s why the best business books aren’t tidy how-tos or frameworks. They’re memoirs.

A memoir isn’t a long résumé padded with inspirational quotes and golf anecdotes. A good one—scratch that, a great one—dives deep into the turning points, the stuff that reshaped the way a person thinks or leads or acts. It’s personal, sure, but also reflective. You get sucked in, the way you do with a great novel. You’re entertained and enlightened at the same time. It’s the kind of book you actually want to read on a plane, in bed, or even at the beach.

Contrast that with most business books, which too often read like PowerPoint decks with a binding. They’re informative, yes—but try recalling one a week later. Try reading one twice. They instruct, but they rarely connect. And business—real business—isn’t just rational. It’s emotional, messy, human. You want to lead better? Sell better? Build better? You need stories that stick.

That’s what a great business memoir does. It walks you through real decisions, real dilemmas, real turning points. It teaches through experience—not through abstraction. And when the writing is good, those lessons go deeper. They stay with you.

You can’t say that about many PowerPoints.

When does coaching become ghostwriting?

Every so often, someone calls me and says something like this:

“I don’t need a ghostwriter. I just need someone to help me get started and keep me on track. I’ve got a great story, and I’ve learned a lot—I just need a little coaching.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable request. In fact, it’s smart.

You’ve had an extraordinary life. You’ve built companies, led teams, survived chaos, mentored others, and made decisions that changed the course of people’s lives (and possibly your own). You’re not looking for someone to tell your story for you—you’re looking for a guide to help you tell it yourself.

That’s where book coaching seems to come in. And I’ll be honest: I like the idea of it. It feels collaborative. Clean. You do the heavy lifting, and I walk alongside you, handing you snacks, cheering you on, maybe yelling “You’ve got this!” when the going gets rough.

And sometimes that’s exactly how it works. But more often?

Well… let’s just say things take a turn.

How It Usually Starts

The coaching relationship begins with the best of intentions. We talk through the big picture. I help you find your themes, structure your narrative, and develop a solid outline. We spend a few hours on Zoom laying the groundwork. Then we dive into the opening chapter. You’re energized. You’re ready.

And then… the blinking cursor.

You sit down to write and realize it’s been a few decades since you last stared down a blank page. A couple of paragraphs trickle out. Then a few more. But it’s not clicking. It feels wooden. You wonder if maybe you’re overthinking it—so you try again. And again.

Then you email me: “Can I just tell you what I’m trying to say? Maybe you could rough out a version of this chapter and I’ll tweak it?”

I nod. Of course. Happy to help.

So I write that rough version. Then the next. Then the one after that. Before long, we’ve done a full loop-de-loop. You’re the one cheering me on, while I do the actual writing.

It’s Not Mission Creep. It’s a Role Reversal.

What started as coaching becomes ghostwriting. And that’s OK.

Writing a memoir—especially one that’s thoughtful, compelling, and actually readable—is hard. It’s not a failure of will or intelligence if you stall out. Writing is a job, just like running a business or managing a team. It takes time, skill, and emotional bandwidth.

Most people who come to me for coaching don’t actually want to learn to write. What they want is to think deeply, to make sense of the choices they’ve made, and to share something lasting. That’s not a craft problem. It’s a collaboration opportunity.

But that shift—when it happens—needs to be built into the process.

How I Handle This Now

To save everyone confusion (and to preserve both your dignity and my sanity), I now break the work into four distinct steps. Each one builds on the last. You can stop after any step. Or, if you find yourself enjoying the ride and want me to take the wheel, you can shift into ghostwriting mode mid-flight. No shame. No hard sell.

Step One: Concept Development & Outline

We talk through the big themes, purpose, tone, and audience. I ask you uncomfortable questions (the kind only a former journalist or a nosy uncle would ask), and from those conversations I write a three-page concept memo plus a working outline for the chapters. You can take this and run with it—or move to Step Two.

Step Two: Chapter Conversations & Transcripts

We go chapter by chapter. You talk, I listen. Each session is recorded and transcribed. You’ll have a full, searchable archive of your own thoughts, stories, and lessons—like a personal oral history, minus the awkward tape recorder. You can use these transcripts to write your chapters, or…

Step Three: Rough Draft Written by Me

If you decide the writing part isn’t for you, I take what we’ve developed so far and turn it into a real book. Not a polished final version—this is the working draft. But it’ll read like a book, sound like you, and have the momentum of a proper manuscript. You’re welcome to revise it yourself, or…

Step Four: Final Polish & Publishing Prep 

I revise the draft with your feedback, line by line, until we have something worthy of your name. If needed, I’ll also help with decisions about design, printing, or pitching it to agents. (Or we can just raise a glass and toast the fact that you finally did the damn thing.)

So… Coaching or Ghostwriting?

We can go all-in to get your memoir in a single streamlined process, or  take it one step at a time.

It’s up to you. Start with a conversation. If you feel like writing, I’ll coach you. If you get stuck, I’ll step in. No judgment. No bait and switch. Just a thoughtful process that respects your time, your voice, and your story.

Don’t talk about kindergarten (yet)

When most people sit down to write a memoir, their first instinct is to start at the very beginning—cue the grainy childhood memories, the dog named Scout, the first-grade teacher who changed everything. It seems logical. It also usually leads nowhere fast.


What you get is a meandering origin story. Chapters drift. Focus blurs. And before long, the momentum fizzles and you’re stuck wondering if your life just isn’t interesting enough to put on the page. (Spoiler: It is. You’re just starting in the wrong place.)


A better approach? Start with a jolt. A turning point. A moment that cracked your world open. Drop us into the middle of something vivid and meaningful—something that hints at the journey to come. A couple of crisp, cinematic paragraphs that say, Here’s where things got real.


But don’t stop there.


After the moment that grabs us by the collar, take a step back. Give us the lay of the land. Who are you? What have you lived through? Why are you telling this story now? What’s in it for the reader?


That opening doesn’t need to be literary or profound. It just needs to be honest. Tell us what’s shaped you. What questions have haunted you. What hard-won insights you’re ready to lay on the table. And maybe most important: who are you writing this for, and what do you want them to take from it?


Doing this upfront does two important things. First, it gives your reader a map. Second—and maybe more crucially—it gives you one. When you know what the book is really about, you stop trying to include everything. You start writing with intention. You know what serves the story and what can stay in the attic.


Yes, we’ll still explore your childhood. But we’re not opening with your Little League stats.


Instead, picture yourself sitting across from a smart, curious friend who asks, “So—what’s your story?”


Start there. Say what matters. The rest will follow.

When a writing coach is your secret sherpa

You've got the itch. The story's rattling around in your head. Maybe it's a memoir, maybe a manifesto. Either way, you've decided to write it yourself—God help you.

Now comes the hard part: getting started, staying started, and somehow crossing the finish line without tossing your laptop into a lake.

That's where coaching comes in.

While I spend most of my time ghostwriting for people who'd rather skip the heavy lifting, I also work with a handful of brave souls who want to write their own book—but wisely realize they could use a steady hand (and the occasional shove) to get it done.

Think of me as an author's book-writing Sherpa — part sounding board, part editor, part cheerleader, and part tough-love taskmaster. I help sharpen ideas, shape narratives, and sidestep the common traps that swallow first-time authors somewhere around Chapter 2.

As your coach, I'll remind you—gently but firmly—that nobody ever finished a book just by thinking about it in the shower. Still, the goal isn't to rush. It's to write a book worth reading—at a pace that lets you keep your day job, your marriage, and your dignity.

Most projects unfold over nine-ish months:

Months 1–2: Concept Development. We figure out what the book is actually about. What's the point? Who's it for? Why should they care? We map out a working outline and give you a clear direction—so you're not wandering in the wilderness.

Months 3–6: Drafting the Manuscript. You write a chapter every two to three weeks. I read, mark up, and send back feedback on structure, tone, pacing, and clarity. I weigh in on what sings, what sags, and when the draft has gone full TED Talk.

Months 7–9: Revisions and Refinement. With a full draft in hand, we tighten the narrative, smooth the transitions, and make sure your voice comes through.

The experience is less boot camp than talk therapy. We chat most weeks—sometimes to review pages, sometimes to brainstorm, sometimes just to keep your head in the game.

I ask for an initial six-month commitment. That's enough time to build momentum and knock out a complete draft. After that, you can continue month-to-month to revise, polish, or just keep from losing steam in the final stretch.

Bottom line: My job is to be a steady partner to help you do it—without losing your way, or your mind. You bring the grit. I bring the compass.

The real (and surprising) ROI of business books

Do business books pay off? That's the never-ending question with one evergreen answer: it depends. It depends on why you're writing the book, how well you target it, how smartly you promote it, and—let's be honest—how compellingly you write the thing in the first place. It also depends on how you define "pay off."

There. Glad we cleared that up.

Now let's talk about what doesn't count as a payoff: becoming a millionaire from your Amazon royalties. If that's your plan, skip the manuscript and head straight for Powerball. Same odds, less stress.

But if you're writing a business book as a strategic move—to position yourself, attract better clients, land speaking gigs, or finally make sense of your hard-earned experience—then you're thinking the right way. And now, thanks to a first-of-its-kind study, we've got real numbers to back that up.

The math doesn’t lie

In mid-2024, four heavy hitters in the publishing support world—Amplify Publishing Group, Gotham Ghostwriters, Smith Publicity, and Thought Leadership Leverage—conducted the Comprehensive Study of Business Book ROI, surveying 350 authors across traditional, hybrid, and self-publishing routes.

Let's just say it was . . . sobering.

The median number of copies sold was 4,600 for traditionally published books, 1,600 for hybrid-published books, and 700 for self-published books. Only 18 percent of traditionally published authors sold over 20,000 copies. For hybrid authors, that number drops to 5 percent.

And yet—despite all that—89 percent said it was a good idea.

Let's unpack why.

Books Don't Make Money. They Make Things Happen.

The fantasy: You write a book, post a photo of it next to a cappuccino, and wait for the cash to roll in.

The reality: If your book's going to make you money, it'll be because of what it does for your business—not because of what it does at the cash register.

In fact, 18 percent of authors who had six months or more under their belt reported making $250,000 or more from opportunities sparked by their books—primarily from speaking, consulting, client leads, and other non-retail magic.

So, What's the Real ROI?

Want a door-opener? Write a book. Handing someone a copy of your book beats handing them a business card 100 times out of 100. Especially if it's well-written, targeted, and solves a real problem your audience faces. Many authors give their books away for free—and make a fortune doing it. Because apparently, the best business strategy is reverse psychology.

You know what else gets you taken seriously? Being introduced as "the author of . . ." It's the quickest shortcut to instant credibility and a great excuse to raise your rates. Suddenly, you're not just another consultant with a LinkedIn profile—you're an expert who literally wrote the book on whatever it is you do.

Books also lead to media opportunities you can't buy on LinkedIn. They get you podcast interviews, speaking gigs, industry panels, and contributor slots—none of which came from chasing algorithms or learning whatever dance is trending on TikTok this week. Your book becomes a passport to places where your future clients are hanging out, desperately hoping someone interesting will show up.

A book isn't just a megaphone, either. It's a magnet. People want to work with and for leaders who have a point of view—and the guts to share it. If your book articulates your vision and values, it'll attract like-minded collaborators and partners. Maybe even that COO you've been dreaming of, the one who actually reads books instead of just buying them for their office shelf.

For a lot of business leaders, a book isn't about sales at all—it's about posterity. A way to pass along what you've learned, explain what you built, or get your ideas out of your head and into the world before you forget them or retire to Tuscany. Books last. Tweets don't. And your grandchildren will probably find your book more impressive than your follower count.

What Makes a Business Book Actually Pay Off?

The study revealed a few key things that separated high-ROI books from expensive paperweights. Books supported by a proper launch campaign grossed over $55,000 on average, because it turns out that hoping people will magically discover your book isn't a marketing strategy.

Those who planned how their book would drive business—not just sales—averaged $96,000 in revenue. Revolutionary concept: having a plan makes things work better.

And here's one that might sound self-serving since I happen to ghostwrite books: books written with professional ghostwriters were four times more profitable than those written solo. If you're busy running a company, managing teams, and still trying to figure out Threads vs. X vs. Substack, hiring a ghostwriter isn't cheating. It's delegation. You know, that thing successful executives do with everything else.

Don't Write for "Everyone"

Here's where good intentions go to die: vague target audiences. The phrase "this book is for anyone who wants to succeed in business" is code for "this book is for no one in particular." The best business books speak directly to someone specific. A CFO in manufacturing. A founder navigating Series B. A leadership coach burned out on jargon. Whoever it is, write like you're in a one-on-one conversation—not giving a TED Talk to the universe.

The Intangibles Are Real

There's ROI you can't measure in cash, though your accountant won't be impressed. Many authors said writing a book gave them clarity, confidence, even catharsis. One admitted his primary motivation was "to prove I could do it." Among those who shared that goal, 94 percent said they succeeded. Sometimes, the book changes you before it changes your business. It's therapy that might actually pay for itself.

So, Is Writing a Business Book Worth It?

If you expect your book to pay off at the register, don't bother. The romance section has that market cornered. But if you view it as a strategic asset—a positioning tool, a conversation starter, a bridge to opportunities you couldn't reach otherwise—then yes, it's absolutely worth it.

Just don't forget: the most successful business authors think like business owners, not literary dreamers. They invest smart. They think long-term. And they understand that the ROI of a great book is measured in doors opened, calls returned, and deals closed—not just in copies sold.

Because at the end of the day, your book isn't really a book. It's a 200-page business card that people actually want to keep.

What kind of business book should you write?

Maybe a helpful colleague said, “You should write a book.” Maybe you scribbled a few ideas in the margins of a board presentation or woke up one morning with a strong urge to make sense of everything you’ve learned. You know you’ve got a story to tell—but you’re not quite sure what shape it should take.

Welcome to the club. Many of the people who reach out to me—entrepreneurs, CEOs, consultants, senior professionals—have valuable insight and experience to share, but no clear label for what they’re trying to create. They don’t speak the language of publishing, and they don’t want to write the wrong book.

Over the years, I’ve come to think about business books in three broad categories: legacy memoirs, authority-builders, and a third, often-overlooked type that sits between them.

Let’s start with the memoirs. These are usually written by people in their late 50s, 60s, or 70s who’ve lived the long arc of a business or leadership journey and want to make sense of it—first for themselves, and then for others. These books tend to focus less on teaching a framework and more on telling the truth: the zigzag path, the stumbles, the close calls, the realizations that came late. The best of them offer insight without ever sounding like a lecture. They don’t set out to “inspire,” and yet they often do—by being candid, generous, and real.

Then there are the authority-building books, typically written in mid-career, by people who have something to teach and a desire to reach a broader audience. These books distill the author’s expertise into a clear, practical message that solves a problem or offers a roadmap. Think of Eric Ries’s The Lean Startup or Donald Miller’s Building a StoryBrand—books that laid out a compelling idea and launched a speaking career, a consultancy, or a movement. They’re clear, structured, and helpful. And when done right, they elevate both the author and the reader.

But not everyone fits neatly into one category or the other. That’s where the third kind of business book comes in: the blended or hybrid book. These are often my favorite projects, and they were the focus of an earlier blog post I wrote about why memoirs make the best business books. These books use the tools of storytelling—character, conflict, turning points—to draw readers in, but they don’t stop there. They also offer something useful, whether it’s a leadership insight, a negotiation strategy, or a model for personal and professional growth.

Books like Phil Knight’s Shoe Dog or Chris Voss’s Never Split the Difference show how well this approach can work. Knight tells the story of building Nike with drama and humor, yet along the way, you learn a great deal about resilience, risk, and values. Voss, a former FBI hostage negotiator, blends thrilling real-world stories with concrete strategies for getting better outcomes in everyday life. They’re business books that don’t feel like homework—and that’s precisely why they work.

So if you’re not sure what kind of book you want to write, don’t worry. The first step isn’t outlining chapters—it’s having a conversation. We’ll talk about your goals, your audience, and what kind of story you actually want to tell. You may be surprised at what you discover.

And when you’re ready, we’ll shape it into the kind of book only you can write.

Why it’s so hard to write about yourself

You’d think it would be a snap..

After all, it’s your life. You were there for all of it. You remember the key players, the big turning points, the bad haircuts. You’ve probably told some of these stories at conferences, dinners, or over a bottle of wine. And yet, when you sit down to write about yourself—really write—it’s as if someone’s poured glue into your brain and handed you a broken keyboard.

You’re not alone. I work with a lot of smart, accomplished people—founders, executives, doctors, lawyers, even the occasional retired race car driver—and most of them struggle with the exact same thing: translating a rich, complex life into a clear, compelling, readable story.

And it’s not for lack of effort. Many clients come to me with a folder labeled “Book” that’s been collecting digital dust since the Obama administration. It’s filled with promising starts, voice memos, late-night notes-to-self, and a half-written prologue that trails off mid-sentence.

So what’s going on? Why do capable, confident people falter when the subject is themselves?

Let’s break it down.

1. “I’m Too Busy” Syndrome

You’ve built a successful life by staying focused on what’s urgent. Writing a memoir feels like a luxury project—something you’ll get to after the next deal, the next quarter, the next vacation that turns into a board call in Cabo. But memoirs aren’t weekend projects. They require time and structure. Left to chance, the process stretches out like George R. R. Martin’s publishing schedule.

Here’s the truth: you don’t need a sabbatical. You need a system. And probably someone—hint, hint—to keep you accountable and on track.

2. “I’m Too Close to It” Fog

This is the big one. When you’ve lived through something—especially a full, nonlinear, occasionally chaotic life—you’re inside the jar. You can’t read the label. You remember everything, which makes it hard to know what matters. You’re tempted to include every job title, every turning point, every character who once shared a cab with you to LAX.

But readers don’t want a résumé. They want a story. A collaborator can help you find the pulse—the emotional throughline that gives your life its shape. Think of it like therapy, but with footnotes.

3. You Know Too Much

This may sound like a compliment. (And it is!) But knowing too much makes it harder to write for readers who know none of it. You forget what needs explaining. You summarize things that should be scenes. You assume emotional resonance when you’ve only delivered bullet points.

It’s like the Simpsons episode where Homer becomes an astronaut and casually mentions to Marge, “Oh yeah, we landed on the moon today. Anyway, what’s for dinner?” You’re Homer. You’ve lived through moon landings. But the rest of us want the details—the lift-off, the G-forces, the view out the window.

4. “It’s Too Late” Myth

This one usually shows up in people’s 60s or 70s: The kids are grown. The business is sold. The window has closed. Nonsense.

You’re just now getting good at this. You have the distance. The clarity. The perspective that turns anecdotes into insight. Frankly, your younger self probably would’ve written a boring book full of chest-puffing and buzzwords. Now? You’ve got wisdom—and stories worth passing on.

5. You’re Not Wired to Look Back

High-achievers are future-oriented. You plan. You solve. You pivot. Reflection feels unproductive, like driving with the rearview mirror taped over. But memoir requires exactly that: slowing down, circling back, looking inward. It’s not a quarterly report—it’s a reckoning.

The irony? That rearview reflection often reveals the most valuable parts of your story—the mistakes, the pivots, the unexpected grace.

That’s a lot, I know. You started out thinking about telling a few good stories—and now you’re staring down questions of perspective, structure, narrative arc, and the emotional resonance of your moon landing. No wonder people stall out. But here’s the thing: none of this means your story isn’t worth telling. It just means you need a different approach.

So What’s the Fix?

Start by giving yourself a break. This isn’t supposed to be easy. Memoir is the literary equivalent of performing surgery on yourself—with no anesthesia and a typewriter in your lap. The solution isn’t grinding it out alone. It’s inviting someone else into the operating room.

A good collaborator helps you step outside yourself. They ask the questions you’ve forgotten to ask. They notice the pattern hiding in the chaos. They listen for what makes your story human—then help you bring that to the page.

Because in the end, that’s what makes a memoir sing. Not the success. Not the chronology. But the reflection. The honesty. The moments that made you flinch, laugh, or change direction.

So if you’ve been stuck on your memoir—or never quite started—know this: you’re not the problem. The process is. You just need a better one.

And maybe someone who knows what questions to ask.

If you're ready to turn that dusty folder into a finished book, let's talk about what that process actually looks like.