Once a rare species, celebrity authored children’s books have become stalwarts of supermarket books aisles. Perfect for a grandparent hunting a last-minute Christmas gift, or a parent looking for something that will appeal to a child reluctant to read, books by stars have become the go-to for many. Those buying them might have it in the back of their minds that these “authors” might not have done much of the writing. But that doesn’t matter, does it? As long as the kids are reading, that’s what counts.
For children’s authors who do write their own stuff, it’s a little galling. They’d give their hind teeth for a spot on that shelf – and surely they are no less deserving of exposure and recognition. As a writer of children’s fiction, I’ve been known to turn a shade of green, too. But I’m conflicted, because in addition to writing original and mostly unrecognised books for young readers, I also work as a ghost writer.
How does it work? Of the ghostwriting commissions I’ve taken, they have all begun the same way, but taken different paths, depending on the collaborator. We are typically prohibited from revealing our clients’ identities, but it normally starts with a kind of “blind date”, to find out whether we are compatible as partners.
Some clients come to that initial meeting – usually in a publisher’s backroom, or discreet hotel bar – with a strong idea of what they’re after. They’ve got characters, have mapped out a five-book arc, and have chosen an illustrator (or, God forbid, have done the illustrations themselves). Others are more open-minded, or even nervous to share their creative vision.
In my experience, none has approached the enterprise in a cynical or mercenary fashion, because for most, the money they will earn from their books is relatively insignificant compared with their primary revenue. They all feel they have something more to offer the world, and they think that children’s literature might be a viable option. It’s a tried and tested path and, surrounded by fawning agents and publishers eager for a surefire hit, nothing disabuses them of that notion.
I’m under no illusions. I am second fiddle, very much the junior partner. The publisher has plenty of options for ghostwriters, so I’m the one who needs to impress during that first encounter. But if I can help my prospective client open up and become creatively engaged, I know we’re on safe ground and the job is mine.
And it is a job. What’s small change for the client, possibly a labour of love, puts food on my family’s table. The work is normally a flat fee for a manuscript, or manuscripts, delivered. So I have to gauge whether the time and effort is worth it.
It’s a job that often requires diplomacy. My contract is with the publisher, not the “author”, who might have a lax approach to the deadlines that I must meet. They might have a creative ego that needs to be nurtured, or restrained. Last-minute, drop-everything changes, late-night calls, are all part of the job. For the relationship to be healthy, it’s important to have trust. That means openness from all parties. I normally have to steer a project, advocating according to creative instincts and professional expertise. I’ve often found my clients don’t have much appreciation of contemporary children’s fiction, so their ideas can be wacky or inappropriate or depict a sort of childhood that no longer exists. And, of course, I have to write the actual words, and be prepared for editorial feedback like any other writer.
Sometimes, I’ll admit, I’m a little starstruck. I’ve brainstormed ideas with clients overlooking their swimming pools, or when other random celebrities knocked on the door. I’ve worked with some people who are remarkable in their fields. I always feel underdressed. My way to deal with that is to move the conversation on to my territory as soon as possible, and that’s talking about story. It’s lovely to see people let their guard down when they get excited about a plot twist.
It’s not hard to see why publishers put their eggs in these celebrity baskets. Market forces have reshaped book sales in the UK over the past two decades. Independent and retail booksellers have faced a sustained assault. First, after the collapse of the Net Book Agreement in the 90s, which fixed the price of books, discounting prevailed, and an unintended consequence was that supermarkets began to monopolise sales. If you’re on a Tesco aisle, great; if you’re not, it’s a tough road. Online sales further squeezed profit margins. It’s incredibly hard to bring debut writers to market, or to sustain a career as what used to be called a “mid-list” author, one with solid but unstellar sales. Advances for such books have barely risen in the last 20 years, as publishers seek to minimise risk.
Apologists for the current state of affairs will insist that revenue generated by the big celebrity brands allows publishers to invest in new and lesser-known talent. There may be some truth in this, but I’m sorry to say I don’t see much evidence. Despite more books being published each year than ever before, average author income has declined. Everyone is chasing the reader’s buck, and going by the shelves and my royalty statements, the celebs are winning.
On a cultural level, it’s a depressing picture – and I wouldn’t blame anyone for calling it a race to the bottom. But for publishers, it’s a complex quest for profitability. The power is in the people’s hands. If the book-buying public can bypass the easy options, and overlook the celebrity offerings, then it will change the dynamic for writers too. Until that happens, I’m parking my guilt and trying to earn a living doing what I love: writing stories that will actually get read.
