My ghostreader breathed the words in my ear as I wrote, read them onto the page. The voice, the almost-voice, the almost-my-voice gave me peace and confidence, echoing my thoughts as I wrote them. I thought, I wrote, I heard.
I can’t say when things changed, when the reading voice spoke earlier. It was gradual, slow, unnoticeable. Then one day it was clearly heard before the words were on the paper. I heard it and wrote the words. But they were still my words, though now in the wrong order.
And if the words are mine, the thoughts are mine. Stories that are true, stories that are made up. I imagined the stories and perhaps the voice. Straightforward stories and straight-talking voices. Perhaps.
Not every story needs to end with a twist. But now you’re doing as you’re told and my story will soon live.