Crossing over to the other side: when an editor becomes a ghostwriter

I recently got to work with a photographer to support them in the creation of a photo book. I was to be their editor as part of a collaboration between Professional Writing and Editing students and Photography and Photo Imaging students at RMIT University. The purpose of the photo book? To tell a story, through images and captions, about any topic the photographer wished.

There is one thing the photograph must contain, the humanity of the moment. This kind of photography is realism. But realism is not enough — there has to be vision, and the two together can make a good photograph. — Robert Frank

I was giddy to sink my teeth into this. My own father is a photographer, so I’d learnt at an early age that what separates a good photographer from a great one lies in that crucial storytelling ability. Any photo can be technically sound and pleasing to look at, but the photos that make history are those that scratch at something deeper in the human condition. Consider Steve McCurry’s famous 1984 portrait Afghan Girl for National Geographic — an image like that renders its subject unforgettable, inseparable from its war context like an ant in amber. But subjects and contexts don’t have to be dramatic to be memorable — sometimes, it’s about seeing an ordinary subject in a new light. After all, before the ant was made timeless and beautiful with amber, it was just another ant.

Unfortunately, no glistening cocoon was to be found around my photographer’s insects. In photo books, captions should only supplement what images don’t already convey; they’re there to add depth to, or tell more of, the story. Not only did the captions not hit these marks, but it was obvious the photographer had changed their concept halfway through, leaving the vision incohesive. Finally, what I’d thought was a rough first draft on Adobe InDesign — full of messy formatting and placeholder typeface and colour choices — was in fact their intended final draft. In of themselves, these issues are fine — that’s what editors are for. But after continual attempts to unearth the photographer’s potential like a teacher would a student, trying my best to work with what was within them, not me, I eventually deduced that the reason they struggled to tell a story was because they did not have one.

I would have to be the one to provide the amber.

Metamorphosis

No one grows up thinking they want to be a ghostwriter. No one plans on that job. — Hilary Lifton

I knew instinctively that collaboration was still the foundation of our evolved relationship. Though I’d had no name for it at the time, I’d been ghostwriting as early as primary school for my brother who struggled academically, understanding even then to keep the language and tone believable for his age, personality and development level (he was fairly behind his classmates due to his at-the-time-undiagnosed ADHD). Later on, throughout high school and university, I ghostwrote essays not only for my brother but also for close friends. I’m not here to debate the ethics of ghostwriting. I’m just saying there’s always a market for it.

My first priority was to streamline the photographer’s vision and scaffold some themes for the writing. Were they okay if I leaned into one concept over another? Were they okay if I re-wrote everything in a tone more appropriate for our new direction? How might they want to rearrange their layout now that the captions were so whittled down? The point of all these questions was to ensure this still felt like their project.

Their answers? Yes, yes please, and I don’t know, could you fix it?

The next challenge was writing captions without supporting material. The photographer had conducted no interviews, no research. They did not understand its importance. I asked the photographer to relay some interview questions to the photo book subject for me. But after some time translating my questions into their native Mandarin, then trying to guess at the answers, then asking a mutual friend of the subject — anything but ask the actual subject — they gave up and told me to make it all up. Given that the would-be-interviewee was meant to be the focus of this 47-page photo book, I found myself having to write a work of fiction.

It’s important to remember, when certain aspects of a ghostwriting collaboration challenge your own ethics, you can take comfort in the fact that it’s ultimately not your project.

Over time, the photographer’s engagement faded. My continual need to run decisions past them in an attempt to keep them involved only served to demonstrate that my efforts were overkill. Their sole concern was with the photographs and the looming deadline.

It was at this point I realised I’d been sitting on a bit of a high horse. That it wasn’t my values and integrity I should be imposing. That it was okay to do away with protocols I’d learnt to uphold as an editor, because I was no longer holding that role. A ghostwriter should serve their ‘author’ in whatever capacity suits them.

The end result was an endearing half-fiction about the un-interviewed subject braided with superficial historical research and a touch of copywriting. It’s definitely not something I’d have wanted my name attached to, but then again, that’s not a goal I should’ve been striving for in the first place. It satisfied the photographer, and that’s all that matters. Did I hear from them again after I’d sent the last file? No. Did I get to see the final iteration of the photo book before it went to print? No. But if you were to stumble on this published book in a shop, you’d feel my presence in its pages. You just wouldn’t be able to see me.