The crock of gold at the end of the rainbow is now sitting in my writing room. And it’s all down to a mother.
I’m ghostwriting for an ex-professional cyclist. This is a project I have dreamed about for many years and recently, when we met up again, I asked if I could write his story. Ghosts usually get asked if they will take on a project and not the other way around.
I knew this would be a wonderful story but what I’d forgotten was my subject had, and always has had, a lousy memory. I may even call the book Forgotten. An apt title because if I ask him any questions he says he’s forgotten and the guy himself has been forgotten, in spite of his amazing career.
I was beginning to wonder if the book would ever get started, let alone finished. Explaining that I only had 3,000 words and needed another 77,000 didn’t bring forth a gush of stories and recollections. There had to be another way so I began interviewing some of his friends and family. The ghosting was turning into more of a biography. It was my subject’s father who told me he had some ‘stuff’ in the garage. I was welcome to keep it for as long as I needed it. The stuff turned out to be a huge plastic box filled with newspapers, magazines, photos, letters race sheets and information. My subject’s life in a box. This was all down to his mother who died six years ago. She had kept everything. And it was all filed in date order.
Bless you, Chris.