Letter to Harry From A Ghost Writer

Never use a memoir to settle scores, says ghost writer and Idler Academy tutor Simon Petherick

Harry, Harry, Harry. Did you not get the Idler email? The one about the new Idler Academy course I recorded: How To Write Your Life Story. This one. It’s an online course, which means you could have watched it in California, Harry. Then you might have avoided all this palaver, all this huff and puff, all this nonsense.

Because one of the primary pointers of the course is: don’t try to use your life story to settle a score. Don’t use the precious record of your own life and those among whom you’ve lived to get your own back. It never ends well.

Yes, I know your book is now the fastest-selling non-fiction book ever to be published in the UK, yet not only is that likely to be a bit of a premature publication (books are for life, not one week) but also, Harry, it’s not really your book. You seem to have allowed all sorts of people to tell your story, but what about you?

I know a bit about this ghostwriting game. I’ve written many books for people who for whatever reason decided they weren’t up to writing their own life story. (In almost all cases, I think they’re wrong, which is what the course is for.) I’ve mainly enjoyed the work, I’ve got to know and like my clients, and in many instances they’ve remained friends.

That’s partly because as a ghostwriter, you become privy to every secret your client has ever had. I’ve had people telling me about affairs they’ve never confessed to before, crimes they’ve never previously admitted, guilty thoughts they’ve harboured for decades. And usually, I end up saying something like: “Do you really want to include that?” and, after a while, my client usually says something like, “I think you’re right. Let’s leave it out.”

I know that Keith Richards’ ghostwriter had him saying Mick had a small todger, but that was schoolboy joking between old friends. I know that Elton John’s ghostwriter quoted Elton on Madonna — “she looked like a fairground stripper” — but that’s authentic, naughty Elton, the outrageous star we all love.

When you told your ghostwriter about your Taliban scoresheet, didn’t you have a chat with someone, an old Army mate for example? Didn’t anyone, including your ghostwriter, say, “Let’s not put it quite like that, Harry. It doesn’t sound very nice.”

Obviously not. I fear that’s because you have too many people around you who are chasing the dollar. Of all people, you should know, Harry, that money doesn’t bring happiness. We all admired you when you put your shoulder to the task of creating the Invictus Games, and all those injured Service men and women showed you their gratitude for your shining a light upon them. None of that was to do with money.

You know what I’d do? I’d try and put this awful book behind you. I know it’s well written – your ghostwriter is a talented writer, it was always going to be well written. But this book will only harm you, and that’s not what books are supposed to do. They are supposed to celebrate, heal, inspire, shock, enrage… but not harm.

Have another go in a few years’ time. But this time, do it yourself, after you’ve watched the course. You might just enjoy it this time. You might discover all the elements in your life that have nurtured you and made you the person you are, not the shock-jock moaner we’re all currently having to endure. That’s not really you. There’s a much more interesting, nicer person in there – you just need to let him tell his story one day.

All the best,

Simon

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