Ghost Writing, Being Behind the Scenes, Keeping a Secret

The last two months I’ve been up to my ears in a writing project that has taken me away from this blog.   I’ve been pouring first fruits into the project instead.  I had a pretty active flare up of the old carpal tunnel since I was doing magazine layout at the same time, but hands are back to normal again.  It never lasts long.  I’m such a glass house kind of person, sharing personal stuff all over Facebook and my blog, that when I get a project that I can’t talk about, it blocks out one of your windows into my world.   And there’s usually such interesting stuff going on in that room that it’s hard to not talk about it!

It’s not that there are any big secrets, it’s just that when I tell my story, I’m also telling the story of anyone else involved, and they may not yet be ready to tell that tale.  I work with several writer friends on publishing projects under contract.    In the course of working together, we  have very fun adventures as we experience synchronicities,  and run across constant symbolism and number sequences.  It always turns into a fun side project to figure out the relevance of the symbolism to the project.  As I say, it’ s not always my story to tell.  Oh, it may be my story in five or ten or fifteen years, but it can’t be my story now.  And that’s cool with me.  Plus, as a ghost writer, I am used to working behind the scenes and used to being unacknowledged in public.  I don’t mind.  I know who I am.  Those that need to know, know who I am.

It used to be important to me to see and be seen with the right people, to have photos taken with them, to name drop them.  I no longer want my face on that totem pole.  Now, the more transparent I am, the better I like it.  Transparent doesn’t mean invisible.  Here it means to endeavor to glide lightly over life, leaving faint impression, hiding nothing, able to easily overlay without obstructing.

So I can talk about last evening at the firepit watching the flames dance around boots propped on toasty bricks, eating burnt marshmallows, I can tell about the raccoon family that came to visit and how we threw sticks to keep them away.  But I can’t tell the details of the hours of dynamic conversation, nor the attendees.  But does that really matter?  What matters is that I did something I found immensely fulfilling that nourished me mind, spirit and body.  I bonded in a deeper way with dear friends, a way that taught me more about myself, about who I am and what I believe I am capable of, and also about the unseen assistance I am able to give someone who can never repay me, for actions no one will ever know about.  And I admit I really dig keeping a secret.

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