#ghost author

I'm actually a ghost right now coming back to haunt my Tumblr page, but good news is that it is just in time for spooky season. please carry on with the funeral! Make it believable.

Any of you can remember when Red Wheel Weiser Books was one of the most respected Publishers out there so much time ago and they look for real authors? When they were signing real writers? Before having white people writing books on cultural appropriation? Before their own authors were out there on twitter saying that "Authors of color just write garbage", does anyone remember those times?.

Because now we are in the age when "because Hispanic people sell well, so we'd rather give a contract to a white person to write about it under a fake name, than hire a real author of color to write about it".

Authors of color can't do more than one book with them in six years, but white authors who are constantly accused of cultural appropriation like Amy Blackthorn do five books in five years, two in one year.

But yes, you don't need to believe their preference for white people or they being racist, no no no, is just how things are.

Well, what can you expect from a CEO who clearly don't care about his publishing house cause is busy protecting the back of his white authors who rather blend themselves with Nazi supporters to sell more and being invited at events.

And not, for legal purposes, this is not a threat.

I mean, anyway, who is going to take legal action to protect a ghost writer for the fact of being a ghost writer.

Rather being away and not making more books ever than being part of this sad circus of white racist people, racists CEO protecting racists editors and their racist authors.

I was going to a club. My friend came over to my house so we could get ready together. She was curling her hair with my iron while I pulled out various items from my closet seeking some feminine approval, as a girl will do. I pulled out my Forever 21 nude and white polka dot skirt for inspection when she screams. In the center of one perfect white circle was this hairy, fat spider. I screamed, she screamed, the spider if it could, was probably screaming too. There was a lot of hustle, a lot of yelling, a lot of unnecessary makeup brush brandishing before the little guy got the message to clear out. One thing was for certain: I could never wear any of my clothes again. It turned into a whole song and dance every morning reaching into my closet. Skirt or spider? Pants suit or agonizing spider bites? Sparkly flats or death?