Figureheading: The Opposite of Ghostwriting
If I write a piece that does not appear under my name, you might call me a ghostwriter. But what about the inverse? What if I don’t write a piece that does appear under my name?
According to the slang I just made up, that would be called figureheading. Which would make me, metaphorically, a wood carving. Or, one-metaphor-removedly, a celebrity taking credit for words I did not write. But I am not a celebrity, and I never asked anyone to be my ghostwriter. So why are two pieces I didn’t write masquerading under my name?
Every year, Heeb magazine compiles a list of 100 influential young Jews, with a photo and a blurb about each honoree. It’s probably not “good for the Jews” to propagate the “Jews own the media” meme, but that’s not for me to say. They asked me to write a couple of the blurbs, and though there was no money in it (what else is new?) it seemed fun and not too time-consuming, so I accepted. I asked the editor if there was a strict word limit. She said blurbs were “usually 75-100 words,” and sent me a model from last year, which was 96 words long.
As usual, I spent way more time on the assignment than I should have. I even interviewed both of my subjects–supererogatory, but again, hey, why not? Also as usual, and to my discredit, I then submitted drafts that were over the suggested word limit (by an average of 22 words). The editor said, “Thanks so much Andrew!” and “I’ll be in touch if we need any edits. Thanks again!” That was two and a half months ago. I never heard from Heeb again.
Today, Heeb posted, under my name, two blurbs I didn’t write. The bastards figureheaded me. Below, in case anyone is still reading, I’ll post both versions: what I wrote and what Heeb ran. They bear no resemblance to each other. Literally, apart from “is” and “the” and “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” I wrote not a word of what was published.
Now, on one hand, who gives a shit? Editors rewrite stuff all the time. It wasn’t like my original 100 words were so spectacular, or even necessarily better than what was published. Besides, this was a throwaway gig. Not many people read Heeb, and those who do probably don’t look at the bylines. No one is going to read those three sentences I didn’t write and say, “I thought Andrew Marantz was a good writer, but apparently not. Maybe we shouldn’t give him that MacArthur fellowship.”
Still, I have to care about my name, because it is my name, and because a name is all a writer has. Call it egotistical–it is–but I am careful about the words I use to represent myself. It’s not business; it’s personal. And I’d rather not get credit for a good piece than get erroneous credit for a bad one.
Here are the two versions of each blurb:
EZRA KLEIN (My version)
Stereotypical Jewish moms want their daughters to marry doctors, not bloggers. But have those moms met Ezra Klein? At 25, he is already one of the most respected journalists in the business. (The Economist called him “terrifyingly young and bright.”) A self-confessed policy nerd, he started blogging while he was in college; these days, the Washington Post pays him to opine. And opine he does, at the rate of thousands of words per day. In fact, I could have sworn he published a blog post while I was interviewing him over the phone. Klein also writes about food, which means that he could probably bring a tasty charoset to the next seder. Hear that, Jewish moms?
EZRA KLEIN (Figureheaded version)
Ezra Klein is a former print journalist who found his niche as a blogger for The Washington Post, where he writes about everything from political policy and health care to food. Klein has used this platform to launch a career as one of the most hotly hunted talking heads on the political news circuit. Not bad for a guy who can work in his underwear.
ORAN CANFIELD (My version)
“People have always told me I should write a book [about my life],” said Oran Canfield, author of the recent memoir Long Past Stopping. One problem: Canfield was not a writer. He was a bike messenger by trade and a musician by calling, performing with the grindcore act Child Abuse. Moreover, he was cynical about the publishing industry; his father, with whom he had a difficult relationship, was the editor of the commercially successful but artistically dubious Chicken Soup for the Soul series. A friend offered to ghostwrite Canfield’s memoir for him, but “she couldn’t get my voice,” he says, “so I wrote a few paragraphs to help her get the idea.” A few cathartic months later, Canfield had written the whole book. Now he is a writer.
ORAN CANFIELD (Figureheaded version)
Oran Canfield is the author of recent memoir Long Past Stopping, a story of drug addiction and a tumultuous upbringing as the son of the editor of the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. Canfield’s book may not nurture your spirit in the same way as his pop’s enterprise, but it will make you feel a hell of a lot better about your own messed-up family.
