private memoirs

I write conversation-driven autobiographies for singular individuals who place a premium on preserving their legacy in print. 

Each client has their own motivation for seeking my services. For some, it is about leaving a lasting record for family. For others, it is about documenting significant moments for the history books.

All are eager to tell their truth, even when they are unsure of the entire story, or when essential details have faded from memory. I dig into the past and make it present for the future. Personal histories are reconstructed with rigorous accuracy, and paired with compelling storytelling in each client's individual voice.

Most of the stories I have worked on are confidential, but even in generalities they speak for themselves. The historic first direct meetings between Israel and the PLO. A rabbi’s serial abuse of yeshiva students. A run at political office after a childhood of heartbreaking hardship. A homemaker's trailblazing legal career. Institutional skullduggery in the world of big-check philanthropy.

Some of my work ends up published. More often than not, my clients prefer to limit their audience to a select few.

The investigative ghostwriting I do often leaves me little to take credit for. But for those who hire my shovel and pen... what we unearth is invaluable. 

A little while back, I worked on the memoir of a man not much older than me. He had already seen a lot.

Dirt poor growing up in West Africa. Violent racism when he tried to find his way as a young adult in the West. Systemic oppression, from bottom to top. Obstacle after obstacle, all before he was old enough for a midlife crisis.

He had overcome it all, though. By any reasonable definition, he had made it. Professional success. A growing family. Life in America.

He wanted to put his story into print, to save others from having to endure what he had. There was an urgency to telling his tale, as he made clear when I began working on the manuscript.

“Each day that I kept these notes without putting them together in book form,” he wrote, “I feared my communities of interest might lose something of value one day if I was unable to share these stories.”

I ended up finishing his manuscript on my birthday. A month later, on a Monday afternoon, I sent him one final piece of business, a revised version of the introduction to his book.  I returned the file to him at 3:59 pm, about an hour before the close of business.

Three hours and 18 minutes later, after a freak accident while lifting weights at the gym, he was pronounced dead.

He was 45.