Let's write about "ghost writing".....wait for it! Ghosting writing for the Pope!
https://medium.com/@frdbg70/i-was-a-ghostwriter-for-the-pope-d6950e5ec379
"I Was A Ghostwriter For The Pope": Here is one thing I learned, echo essay published in Medium.com by Daniel B. Gallagher
It should hardly come as a surprise that popes don’t write a lot of
One reason for this is that we, his ghostwriters, already knew his mind. In fact, the whole world did. As a professional theologian, Ratzinger was a prolific author. He gave book-length interviews while Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith which provided key insights into his heart and mind. We were able to draw from that corpus and apply it to the issues of the day as we composed speeches for apostolic journeys, meetings with ambassadors, audiences, encyclicals, and so on.
On my first day at the Secretariat of State, I hadn’t even entered my office before receiving my first assignment. A distinguished member of the Catholic hierarchy had died that very morning, and my first task was to compose a letter of condolence from the Holy Father. As if that weren’t daunting enough, a major controversy in the prelate’s archdiocese — which he heroically confronted — had caused deep dissension among his flock. I was directed to employ “maximal discretion” in composing the letter. I knew next to nothing about the controversy, the circumstances, and the archbishop’s response, and I had no clue about what the pope wanted to say. I was frozen stiff.
So, after staring at the telegram the pope had received about the prelate’s death for a few hours, I decided to knock on the door of my teacher-turned-colleague Fr. Reginald Foster, OCD, whose office was just down the hall. I begged for advice. He shared words his mentor had given him forty years earlier on his first day at the office. “Si tu esses papa, quid diceres? (If you were pope, what would you say?)”
That changed everything. I just needed to take a deep breath, relax, pretend to be the pope, and put pen to paper. Before consulting Fr. Foster, I was mistakenly fixated on Benedict the theologian and academic. It hadn’t occurred to me that the pope was as prone to human grief as any of us would be at the death of someone dear. I should have been imagining the grief I would feel if I were the pope and my brother shepherd had died.
I also had to accept the fact that I didn’t and couldn’t know everything surrounding the controversy that made the wording of the letter so delicate. I had to take the risk that my words — I mean, the pope’s words — would be misinterpreted or misunderstood.
That also meant I had to avoid being too specific, which was something adverse to my nature since the writing I had previously done as an academic philosopher demanded the utmost precision and clarity. I abhorred deliberate vagueness, but I also realized that my boss the pope did too. In his new position, he — and therefore I — had to write in vagaries nonetheless.
After a few weeks of sheepish dithering at my keyboard, I received another piece of golden advice. I was suffering from a tinge of bitterness that no one had prepared me for this work. I had plenty of experience as a writer but had never written in anyone’s name but my own. While a U.S. Presidential delegation was visiting the Vatican, I befriended a ghostwriter for George W. Bush. I lamented with him that I was feeling completely inadequate to write for the pope since I had no previous experience as a ghostwriter. He flatly asked me whether I thought anyone had ever started to ghostwrite with pervious ghostwriting experience. “Obviously not,” I responded. That instantly led to another breakthrough in confidence.
In short, here is one thing I learned from ghostwriting, and it is two-pronged.
First prong: you have to live and breathe as if you were the boss. You have to feel how he feels, think how he thinks, and write as he writes. You have to follow his every move and structure your day according to his schedule. M. F. Moonzajer writes that “the nastiest kind of writer is a ghostwriter, who bears people’s children in their body for money.” Though I didn’t make much money, I did feel what it’s like to suffer the birth pangs of bringing the pope’s thoughts and words to light. I was constantly mulling over complicated issues, rereading his published and unpublished work, and formulating his thoughts.
As strange as it was, it actually became fun after a while. Benedict himself would occasionally scribble a few words of affirmation in the margin or a proverbial “!”. Although I first found that disconcerting, I eventually figured out that the exclamation mark signaled satisfaction.
their own material. The sheer volume simply doesn’t allow for it.
In the first thirty days (elected May 8, 2025) since Leo XIV was elected, he has delivered just as many speeches. That’s in addition to dozens of documents he must sign each week, including bulls, apostolic constitutions, diplomatic letters, and so on. Each pope opts for a different level of involvement in the work, which varies according to schedule, health, expertise, interest, and so on.
Benedict XVI chose to spend much of his time writing three brilliant books on the life of Jesus of Nazareth, covering his public ministry, passion/death/resurrection, and infancy. Because he did not intend them as part of the “ordinary Magisterium” — i.e., the body of teaching that Catholics must adhere to — he published them under the name “Joseph Ratzinger” instead of “Benedict XVI.” That left the bulk of the papal writing to us, his ghostwriters. Although Benedict diligently reviewed everything we prepared for him, he rarely made comments or suggestions.
Benedict XVI chose to spend much of his time writing three brilliant books on the life of Jesus of Nazareth, covering his public ministry, passion/death/resurrection, and infancy. Because he did not intend them as part of the “ordinary Magisterium” — i.e., the body of teaching that Catholics must adhere to — he published them under the name “Joseph Ratzinger” instead of “Benedict XVI.” That left the bulk of the papal writing to us, his ghostwriters. Although Benedict diligently reviewed everything we prepared for him, he rarely made comments or suggestions.
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| Saint Peter's Squre and Bascilica |
One reason for this is that we, his ghostwriters, already knew his mind. In fact, the whole world did. As a professional theologian, Ratzinger was a prolific author. He gave book-length interviews while Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith which provided key insights into his heart and mind. We were able to draw from that corpus and apply it to the issues of the day as we composed speeches for apostolic journeys, meetings with ambassadors, audiences, encyclicals, and so on.
On my first day at the Secretariat of State, I hadn’t even entered my office before receiving my first assignment. A distinguished member of the Catholic hierarchy had died that very morning, and my first task was to compose a letter of condolence from the Holy Father. As if that weren’t daunting enough, a major controversy in the prelate’s archdiocese — which he heroically confronted — had caused deep dissension among his flock. I was directed to employ “maximal discretion” in composing the letter. I knew next to nothing about the controversy, the circumstances, and the archbishop’s response, and I had no clue about what the pope wanted to say. I was frozen stiff.
So, after staring at the telegram the pope had received about the prelate’s death for a few hours, I decided to knock on the door of my teacher-turned-colleague Fr. Reginald Foster, OCD, whose office was just down the hall. I begged for advice. He shared words his mentor had given him forty years earlier on his first day at the office. “Si tu esses papa, quid diceres? (If you were pope, what would you say?)”
That changed everything. I just needed to take a deep breath, relax, pretend to be the pope, and put pen to paper. Before consulting Fr. Foster, I was mistakenly fixated on Benedict the theologian and academic. It hadn’t occurred to me that the pope was as prone to human grief as any of us would be at the death of someone dear. I should have been imagining the grief I would feel if I were the pope and my brother shepherd had died.
I also had to accept the fact that I didn’t and couldn’t know everything surrounding the controversy that made the wording of the letter so delicate. I had to take the risk that my words — I mean, the pope’s words — would be misinterpreted or misunderstood.
That also meant I had to avoid being too specific, which was something adverse to my nature since the writing I had previously done as an academic philosopher demanded the utmost precision and clarity. I abhorred deliberate vagueness, but I also realized that my boss the pope did too. In his new position, he — and therefore I — had to write in vagaries nonetheless.
After a few weeks of sheepish dithering at my keyboard, I received another piece of golden advice. I was suffering from a tinge of bitterness that no one had prepared me for this work. I had plenty of experience as a writer but had never written in anyone’s name but my own. While a U.S. Presidential delegation was visiting the Vatican, I befriended a ghostwriter for George W. Bush. I lamented with him that I was feeling completely inadequate to write for the pope since I had no previous experience as a ghostwriter. He flatly asked me whether I thought anyone had ever started to ghostwrite with pervious ghostwriting experience. “Obviously not,” I responded. That instantly led to another breakthrough in confidence.
In short, here is one thing I learned from ghostwriting, and it is two-pronged.
First prong: you have to live and breathe as if you were the boss. You have to feel how he feels, think how he thinks, and write as he writes. You have to follow his every move and structure your day according to his schedule. M. F. Moonzajer writes that “the nastiest kind of writer is a ghostwriter, who bears people’s children in their body for money.” Though I didn’t make much money, I did feel what it’s like to suffer the birth pangs of bringing the pope’s thoughts and words to light. I was constantly mulling over complicated issues, rereading his published and unpublished work, and formulating his thoughts.
As strange as it was, it actually became fun after a while. Benedict himself would occasionally scribble a few words of affirmation in the margin or a proverbial “!”. Although I first found that disconcerting, I eventually figured out that the exclamation mark signaled satisfaction.
Eventually, I gained the confidence of knowing what the Pope should say and how he should say it even before he knew what he was going to say and how he was going to say it.
Second prong: no one should ghost write for too long. You run the risk of losing your identity and going crazy. Moreover, you eventually run out of things to say.
That happened to me in the wee hours of April 6th, 2009, as I felt a heavy aftershock ripple through Rome. I knew that somewhere not too far away houses had crumbled and people had died. I turned on the radio to find out that the epicenter was near L’Aquila. To this day, I still don’t understand why I sat up in bed and said to myself aloud, “I (i.e., as Pope) have nothing more to say.” I had exhausted a few key ideas that had had a long run, and it was time to pass on the torch.
As providence would have it, I was transferred from the English Section to the Latin Section just a few weeks later after Fr. Reginald fell ill. Consequently, my time writing speeches was vastly reduced. I was still a ghostwriter, but I was writing in a ghost language, albeit a language I deeply love and have dedicated my life to. It also required the utmost precision I had been yearning for.
In effect, I had gone from writing little of substance in a language that nearly a fifth of the world understands (i.e., English), to writing something of substance in a language that nearly no one understands (i.e., Latin). I’m not sure which I preferred, but the experience of ghostwriting in both is an experience I will forever treasure.
Second prong: no one should ghost write for too long. You run the risk of losing your identity and going crazy. Moreover, you eventually run out of things to say.
That happened to me in the wee hours of April 6th, 2009, as I felt a heavy aftershock ripple through Rome. I knew that somewhere not too far away houses had crumbled and people had died. I turned on the radio to find out that the epicenter was near L’Aquila. To this day, I still don’t understand why I sat up in bed and said to myself aloud, “I (i.e., as Pope) have nothing more to say.” I had exhausted a few key ideas that had had a long run, and it was time to pass on the torch.
As providence would have it, I was transferred from the English Section to the Latin Section just a few weeks later after Fr. Reginald fell ill. Consequently, my time writing speeches was vastly reduced. I was still a ghostwriter, but I was writing in a ghost language, albeit a language I deeply love and have dedicated my life to. It also required the utmost precision I had been yearning for.
In effect, I had gone from writing little of substance in a language that nearly a fifth of the world understands (i.e., English), to writing something of substance in a language that nearly no one understands (i.e., Latin). I’m not sure which I preferred, but the experience of ghostwriting in both is an experience I will forever treasure.
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