Secret Life of an Anonymous Speechwriter to the Stars

At work, I’m a ghost: always heard, never seen. But mastering the voices of celebrities and politicians helped me learn to speak for myself.

Illustrations by Genevieve Ashley

I write speeches for people who can barely read their scripts because public speaking makes them nervous (statistically, public speaking is the number one fear, worse even than death). I write for people who are so compelling and beautiful that they could recite the alphabet and get a standing ovation. I write arguments that are recited in the House and Senate, in the seats of power. My words are on television and in stadiums that hold thousands of eager listeners. I’m not there at all. The speeches, toasts and rallying cries I write go further than I ever will: I may not be seen, but I am heard. The words that do not matter when I speak for myself are amplified when I put them in the mouths of others. Because as anyone knows, it’s not just the words that matter. It’s who says them, and when, and how.

Before I started writing for reality TV stars, musicians, political leaders and lecturers, I assumed that everyone wrote their own lines. Why wouldn’t I think that? A well-written speech sounds like the person who’s giving it. Or at least, it sounds like the person the speaker wants you to believe they are. Now I know that I was naive to assume that any public figure, even one who is a good writer, writes their own speeches and biographies and other ephemera. I’ve learned that you are likely reading something written “in the style of” by a very talented mimic.

I’m an excellent mimic. This makes me a good speechwriter, but when I came out as nonbinary trans, it also became a survival skill. My welfare often depends on whether the non-transgender people around me see me as fully human — and that means knowing exactly what to say, when, and in what tone. I needed to sound confident but not overbearing; friendly but not obsequious. My masculine presentation had to be balanced by kindness, consideration of others, and a willingness to cede the floor. I couldn’t afford to blunder through any conversation, and I approached every interaction with more awareness and intention than ever before. Honestly, I spent a lot of time thinking about what Fred Rogers would say.

The only place where I didn’t need to moderate my tone, where I could speak freely, was in my addiction recovery community. Through the first, dramatic stages of my transition, when my voice broke and when I was so afraid that my anger and panic was unwelcome in the world, the friends I knew there listened to me and encouraged me to keep sharing. They understood that, for people like us, honesty is lifesaving. People who swallowed their feelings relapsed, disappeared and died. I lost many friends to overdoses and substance-related accidents and suicides, silent deaths that went unacknowledged outside of our community. I kept showing up, and I kept talking. Tears, bile, all of me was welcome.