William Hammett, Independent Ghostwriter and Editor

Nonfiction (Religious/Spiritual)

The following excerpt has been used with the permission of a former client and/or the publisher. Please note that I can adjust my prose style for a particular genre, and the following is not intended to represent my full range of styles or the number of genres I consider. For nonfiction, the level of complexity can be adjusted depending on client preference.

As a teen, I engaged in regular casual sex, relationships now termed "friends with privileges," although I was not at all averse to the traditional one-night stand. I was insecure and needy in the extreme and required a warm body to fill the vacuum that was my life.

After college, I was exhausted at the end of the day – I sold real estate – and turned to cocaine and alcohol. Needless to say, my choices became more and more erratic and self-destructive. By the age of twenty-seven, I'd been divorced twice and had morphed into a high-functioning junkie – wealthy, gorgeous, and miserable.

While having a drink with a female colleague one evening, I was approached by a handsome man wearing a sports coat and jeans. He was straight out of a television commercial, his teeth sparkling white, his dark brown hair short and tapered. Well, fine and good. I was game as usual. Without being asked, my colleague moved to the bar.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in tears. The man, whose name was Ted, told me that I radiated unhappiness, that it surrounded me like a dark, jagged aura. He said that drugs and alcohol weren't the answers, and that meaningless sex was a dead-end street. Then he dropped the proverbial bombshell, one that exploded at the base of my skull, producing disorientation and dizziness. Ted predicted that I'd be dead by age fifty. He knew everything about my life even though I had offered him no personal information whatsoever.

"So what do I do?" I asked. "I don't want to die."

"Try prayer," Ted replied. "It's simple but effective."

Abruptly, he got up and left.

My friend returned from the bar with two glasses of chardonnay, one for each of us.

"That guy was awfully good-looking," I said, wiping mascara from below my eyes. "But strange."

"Guy?" my friend said. "What guy? Honey, I went to the bar to get more wine since the waitress disappeared half an hour ago. You've been sitting here alone."