Page 4 of Gone for the Ghost
She blinks, clearly surprised by the question.“You actually want to know?”
“I’m curious about the creative process,” I say, which is true enough.“It’s been some time since I’ve observed someone actively engaged in artistic endeavors.”
“Well,” she says, settling back onto the couch with the kind of animation that suggests she rarely gets to discuss her work, “the main problem is that I can’t seem to make Ava—that’s my heroine—feelreal.She’s supposed to be this independent, successful woman, but every time I put her in a scene, she just… reacts to things instead of driving the action.”
“Ah.”I nod, recognizing the issue immediately.“A passive protagonist problem.Quite common in amateur work.”
“Amateur work?”Her eyebrows rise, but her tone holds more curiosity than offense.
“The protagonist must want something specific and be willing to take action to achieve it,” I explain.“Otherwise, you’re simply documenting a series of events rather than telling a story.”
“And you know this, how?”
The question forces me to confront my own assumptions about artistic expertise.Do I know this?And if so, how?
“I was…amwell-educated,” I say finally.“Literature, rhetoric, the classics.I may have some familiarity with narrative structure.”
“Some familiarity,” she repeats, and I catch the hint of a smile.“Right.So, what would you suggest for Ava?”
***
Thenextmorning,Ifind myself drawn to observe her writing routine with genuine interest rather than mere territorial concern.She settles at my antique desk with her laptop, coffee mug steaming beside her, and begins typing with the kind of focused energy that suggests real investment in her work.
“Your protagonist’s motivation is inconsistent,” I find myself saying after reading over her shoulder for several minutes.“She’s supposed to be independent and strong-willed, yet she’s making decisions based entirely on what other people think of her.”
Lily pauses mid-sentence, glancing up at me with the kind of attention that makes me feel genuinely useful for the first time in decades.“You’re reading my work?”
“I’m observing,” I correct.“And what I observe is a character who lacks clear objectives.What does she want in this scene?”
“She wants to impress her boss,” Lily says, but even as she speaks, I see her reconsidering the choice.
“Why?What does impressing her boss accomplish that she couldn’t achieve through more direct means?And more importantly, what does she fear will happen if she doesn’t succeed?”
The questions seem to unlock something in her understanding.She stares at the screen for a moment and then begins deleting paragraphs with the kind of ruthless efficiency that suggests she’s finally identified the real problem.
“She’s not trying to impress her boss,” she says slowly, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she explores the deeper motivation.“She’s trying to prove to herself that she’s capable of taking risks.The boss is just… the vehicle.”
“Better,” I say when she reads the revised passage aloud.“You’re learning to trust your character’s intelligence.”
This becomes our pattern over the following days.She writes; I observe and critique.She accepts my feedback with the kind of grace that suggests she actually wants to improve rather than simply receive validation.Her manuscript grows stronger under my guidance, developing the emotional authenticity that separates genuine storytelling from formulaic entertainment.
“Your heroine needs to fail,” I tell her one afternoon as she struggles with a particularly saccharine scene.“Success without struggle is neither interesting nor believable.”
“But she’s supposed to be competent,” Lily argues, leaning back in her chair with the kind of frustrated energy that suggests she’s been wrestling with this problem for hours.“Strong heroines don’t just fall apart when things get difficult.”
“Strong heroines face genuine obstacles and find ways to overcome them,” I reply, settling into what’s become my preferred position for these discussions—close enough to read her screen but far enough to maintain the illusion of professional distance.“Competence isn’t the absence of failure.It’s the ability to recover from setbacks with grace and determination.”
I watch her process this, see the moment when understanding transforms her entire approach to the character arc.She’s not just implementing my suggestions.She’s learning to think like a storyteller, to understand that conflict creates character and that readers invest in people who struggle rather than those who succeed effortlessly.
“What about this dialogue?”she asks later, turning the laptop toward me.“Does it sound natural?”
I read the exchange between her protagonist and the love interest, noting the stilted quality that suggests she’s thinking about what the characters should say rather than listening to what they would say.
“Your hero speaks like he’s delivering a prepared speech,” I observe.“Real people interrupt each other, lose their train of thought, say things they don’t mean when they’re emotional.”
“Show me,” she says, and I find myself oddly pleased by her directness.
I demonstrate by rewriting a portion of the dialogue, showing her how subtext can carry more weight than direct statement, how people reveal themselves through what they don’t say as much as what they do.
