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"I finished my memoir." "Congratulations!" "Thanks, it was brutal." "How old are you?" "Twenty-three." "...About what?" "The suffering." "What suffering?" "Mostly this conversation."

Sold my memoir rights to Hollywood. They called with changes. 'We love it. Small notes. The protagonist needs to be younger.' I'm the protagonist. 'And more athletic.' I wrote about my divorce. 'And there should be sharks.' My memoir takes place in Nebraska. 'Freshwater sharks. Very threatening.' I asked about keeping my name. 'The sharks have names now. Yours didn't test well.'

A ghostwriter walks into a therapist's office. 'Doctor, I'm having an identity crisis. I've written 47 bestselling memoirs, but legally, I don't exist. I've lived as a retired general, a pop star, a disgraced politician, and a celebrity chef—all in the same year.' The therapist nods thoughtfully. 'And how does that make you feel?' The ghostwriter sighs: 'I honestly don't know anymore. I wrote my own diary last week, and even that was attributed to someone else.'