The Ghost in the Machine is an Old Friend
What the Ancient Practice of Ghostwriting Reveals About AI and Authenticity
I’d like to start this week’s essay with a little story that happened to me some twenty-five years ago. During an academic conference, I took part in a discussion with a well-known computer science researcher. His main claim to fame was his work on early Internet protocols. Lesser known, however, was his prolific career as a novelist, engaging in what would now be called “world-building” across an extensive series of books. When somebody asked how he balanced a challenging dual career, which involved producing high-quality academic publications alongside writing fiction, his reply was surprisingly simple. “It’s quite straightforward,” he explained. “My publisher only needs a ten-page treatment for each book. They have someone else develop that into a full novel.”
The researcher in question was Hermann Maurer, an internationally recognized researcher at the Graz University of Technology, who is also credited with having authored the 12-book science fiction series Xperten. What Maurer described so openly was ghostwriting—the practice of hiring someone to write content that will be published under another person’s name. I still remember vividly that his open explanation of using a ghostwriter for his novels did not raise any eyebrows among our group. Interestingly, we considered it a completely acceptable practice.
Today, the AI-assisted writing process often looks similar to Maurer’s approach. It might begin with a concept or outline, which is then fed to an LLM. The machine drafts the words. The human edits them manually, revising for clarity, removing an unnecessary em-dash here, simplifying an overly complex construction there. However, even though the AI-augmented writer arguably contributes more to the finished text than Maurer, who only provided an initial expose, the non-human collaborator raises concerns not typically associated with human ghostwriting. With AI, we worry about authenticity, about whether AI-assisted writing somehow counts less than “real” authorship. With a human ghostwriter, we generally don’t.
This brings up an interesting question: Does the difference between a human and an AI ghostwriter really make a difference from the perspective of authorship? The current discourse saturates us with concerns about AI’s role in writing, often treating it as an unprecedented threat to what it means to be an author. In the following essay, I want to argue otherwise. AI has introduced nothing new to the concept of authorship. It has simply made existing practices more widely accessible. And in doing so, it has forced us to confront questions about collaboration and credit that we’ve been conveniently avoiding for centuries.
A shadow profession: the ancient and enduring history of the ghostwriter
A historical analysis reveals that the unease surrounding uncredited authorship is a modern sentiment applied to an ancient practice. Ghostwriting is deeply woven into the fabric of literary and political history, demonstrating that the need for authorial assistance is a cultural constant rather than a contemporary corruption.
From antiquity to the modern word
The practice emerged in ancient Greece with logographers, who were skilled orators hired to write court speeches for plaintiffs and defendants. In a society where citizens represented themselves in legal matters, demand for persuasive rhetoric created a professional class of speech-craftsmen. Lysias, a contemporary of Plato, became the most celebrated of these figures, praised for his ability to inhabit the voice and character of his clients so convincingly that the speeches felt authentic to the speaker rather than the writer.
This pattern of invisible authorship expanded as political power centralized. In the Roman Empire, anonymous writers composed speeches for senators and emperors, lending their rhetorical skill to figures like Julius Caesar and Nero. The practice adapted to each era’s power structures. Medieval scribes wrote on behalf of poorly educated royalty. And for centuries, Jesuit writers have authored papal encyclicals in service of the Vatican. One example is the Mystici corporis Christi, issued under Pope Pius XII’s name, but written by Sebastiaan Tromp. The pattern appears even in foundational religious texts; many biblical scholars believe St. Paul’s epistles were actually written by his students.
What linked these disparate examples was their shared character as bespoke services. A powerful patron needed words; a skilled writer provided them. The relationship remained artisanal—one writer, one client, one text at a time. This would change dramatically in the nineteenth century, when the practice migrated from the corridors of power into the realm of commercial publishing. The term “ghostwriter” itself emerged only in the early twentieth century, coined by American sports agent Christy Walsh to describe the writers he hired to produce content for famous athletes like Babe Ruth. But by the time the word appeared in print in a 1908 Nebraska newspaper, the practice it described had already begun transforming into something far more systematic.
The literary workshop and the fiction factory
The practice of ghostwriting had long been an open secret in the literary world, where it evolved from a bespoke service into a model of industrial production. Perhaps the most famous example is the 19th-century French author Alexandre Dumas. Many of his most celebrated works, including The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, were created in close collaboration with other writers, most notably Auguste Maquet, who developed plots and wrote initial drafts but received no public credit. In France, these uncredited collaborators were often referred to by the racial slur nègre, a label that underscored the hierarchical nature of their work.
The Stratemeyer Syndicate, an American publishing company, perfected this workshop model in the 20th century, effectively turning authorship into a streamlined process. Their work includes well-known children’s classics such as Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. The author name “Carolyn Keene” was a house pseudonym used by a rotating stable of ghostwriters who followed strict formulas, completely detaching the concept of authorship from a single individual and transforming it into a marketable brand.
The historical trajectory shows a clear pattern: the function of the author has been subject to the logic of industrialization. What began as a one-to-one craft service with the Greek logographers evolved into the workshop model of Dumas and then the full-scale factory production of the Stratemeyer Syndicate. This progression culminates in the modern literary empires of figures like James Patterson, who openly collaborates with a team of co-writers. He has described his process as one of delegation, where he focuses on the overarching creative vision and plot, while others handle the labor of producing the prose. The “voice” of the author, in this context, becomes a product that can be scaled and mass-produced—a historical precedent that sets the stage for the industrial-scale content generation of AI.
The ethics of invisibility: a spectrum of acceptance
The ethical standing of ghostwriting is not absolute. It is highly contextual, defined primarily by audience expectations and the potential for deception or harm. An examination of its use across different domains reveals a clear spectrum of public acceptance.
The accepted ghost: politics and celebrity
In the realms of politics and celebrity, ghostwriting is not only tolerated but largely expected. It is common knowledge that political leaders employ speechwriters, and research suggests the public is largely aware of and accepts this practice. The line between assistance and authorship can blur in interesting ways. The Pulitzer Prize-winning book Profiles in Courage, credited to John F. Kennedy, was largely the product of a close collaboration with his speechwriter, Ted Sorensen. Similarly, Winston Churchill often produced his histories by pacing his study and dictating a “stream of historical consciousness” to a team of secretaries and research assistants who would then shape the final text.
This acceptance extends to the billion-dollar market for celebrity memoirs. The public generally understands that when a politician like Hillary Clinton, an athlete like Andre Agassi, or a business leader publishes an autobiography, they are providing the life story, experiences, and voice, while a professional writer provides the literary craft. In these cases, the named author’s contribution is their life and perspective, which is the primary value proposition for the reader.
The condemned ghost: academia and medicine
The perception shifts dramatically in academic and scientific contexts, where the core value is the certified intellectual work of an individual. In academia, paying someone to write a paper is unequivocally condemned as “contract cheating,” a form of fraud that undermines the very purpose of education and credentialing. The work is supposed to be a demonstration of the student’s own knowledge and ability; outsourcing it represents a fundamental act of dishonesty.
The most dangerous form of ghostwriting occurs in medical research. Pharmaceutical companies have been found to hire professional medical writers to produce scientific papers that favorably portray their products, often downplaying risks or exaggerating benefits. These companies then pay respected academics—so-called “guest authors”—to lend their names and credibility to the articles, which are then published in peer-reviewed journals. This practice is not merely deceptive; it pollutes the scientific record and can have serious ramifications for public health. The controversies surrounding drugs like Vioxx and the diet drug Fen-Phen, where ghostwritten articles concealed life-threatening side effects, stand as stark warnings of the potential harm.
The pattern here matters. Ghostwriting exists on a spectrum from acceptable assistance to dangerous fraud. On one end, we find political speechwriters and celebrity memoir collaborators, whose work is largely expected and understood by their audiences. On the other, we find medical ghostwriters manufacturing false scientific consensus and students purchasing essays to fraudulently obtain credentials. The determining factor is not the practice itself but whether it serves to enable honest expression or to perpetuate deception.
The digital ghost: AI as the great equalizer
The historical and ethical landscape of ghostwriting provides the necessary context for understanding the role of artificial intelligence. AI is not an alien presence in the world of authorship; it is the technological culmination of a centuries-old practice. The workflow of the modern writer using an LLM—providing a conceptual framework and then curating, editing, and refining the machine’s output—is a digital parallel to the analog process employed by figures from Hermann Maurer to James Patterson. The primary difference is not in the collaboration’s nature, but in its accessibility.
The democratization of access
Historically, hiring a professional ghostwriter was a privilege reserved for the powerful and wealthy. The cost could range from several thousand dollars for a single project to tens of thousands for a full-length book, placing it far beyond the reach of the average person. AI writing tools have shattered this economic barrier. For the price of a modest monthly subscription, or sometimes for free, anyone can now access sophisticated writing assistance that rivals the output of mid-tier human ghostwriters. This dramatic cost collapse represents a profound democratization of authorial support.
This newfound accessibility has the potential to level the playing field in significant ways. For researchers in developing countries or scholars who are not native English speakers, AI can be a transformative tool. It can help them navigate the complex grammatical and stylistic conventions of academic publishing, ensuring their ideas are judged on their intellectual merit rather than their linguistic polish. In this sense, AI acts as an equalizer, offering support that was once the exclusive domain of a well-funded elite.
The evolving human-AI workflow
The relationship between a writer and an AI is not one of replacement but of synergy. AI excels at overcoming the initial hurdle of the blank page, generating drafts, brainstorming ideas, and structuring content in minutes. However, AI-generated prose, if left unedited, often lacks the essential human elements of nuance and authenticity. The human role thus shifts from pure originator to that of director, editor, and curator. The human provides the lived experience, the critical judgment, and the ethical oversight. This collaborative model points toward a future of augmented authorship, where technology enhances human creativity rather than supplanting it.
This democratization does not eliminate the ethical questions surrounding ghostwriting; it universalizes them. The ethical spectrum, from acceptable assistance to dangerous fraud, is no longer a theoretical framework for a small professional class. It is now a practical reality for anyone with an internet connection. A student who uses an LLM to generate an entire essay is engaging in the same “contract cheating” as one who hires a human from an essay mill. A non-native English-speaking scientist who uses AI to refine their grammar and phrasing is using it as an accepted collaborative tool, much like a politician uses a speechwriter. And a malicious actor using AI to flood social media with fake constituent letters to legislators is weaponizing it for deception, posing a threat to democratic processes.
AI has not created a new ethical dilemma. It has scaled the existing one to a societal level. The fundamental question remains what it has always been: is the uncredited collaboration intended to enable honest expression or to perpetrate fraud? AI simply puts that choice into the hands of billions.
The augmented author and the future of authenticity
The journey from the ancient Greek logographer to the modern large language model reveals a remarkable consistency in the human desire for collaborative creation. It shows that the anxieties that swirl around AI and authorship are not new; they are echoes of debates about authenticity, credit, and the nature of intellectual labor that have persisted for millennia. The ghost in the machine is not a stranger. It is an old acquaintance in a new form.
I often think back to that conference conversation twenty-five years ago, when Hermann Maurer described his ghostwriting arrangement with such openness. At the time, I remember thinking little of it—it was simply how things were done. Today, when a student tells me they used AI to help structure a thesis, I find myself asking questions I never thought to ask Maurer: How much was yours? Where did the collaboration begin and end? What does it mean for your development as a writer? Perhaps the difference lies not in the practice itself, but in who has access to it, and what that access means for learning.
The challenge, then, is not to prohibit AI’s use but to develop new norms built on transparency and honesty. To view AI merely as a tool for enabling academic dishonesty is to miss its profound potential. It represents the democratization of a service once reserved for the elite, offering a powerful resource to amplify human ideas. The critical question is shifting from “Who wrote this?” to “What was the process of creation, and was it an honest one?”
For educators navigating this landscape, the task is to guide a generation of writers who will be natively fluent in human-AI collaboration. The goal is to teach them not only how to leverage these powerful tools to enhance their thinking and expression but also how to navigate the complex ethical terrain they have inherited. This means helping students understand the spectrum of acceptable use, developing their judgment about when AI assistance crosses into fraud, and cultivating a commitment to transparency about their creative process.
The future of authorship is not artificial; it is augmented. The most authentic work will come not from rejecting the ghost in the machine, but from learning how to conduct a more thoughtful and transparent conversation with it. We have been having this conversation in various forms for thousands of years. The technology has changed. The fundamental questions about collaboration, credit, and authenticity remain the same. Our task as educators is to help our students engage with these questions honestly, equipped with both a historical perspective and practical wisdom about the tools at their disposal.
What has been your experience with AI writing tools—both as a user and as someone observing their impact on your field? When colleagues or students discuss AI-assisted writing, what concerns or possibilities dominate the conversation? For educators specifically: how are you helping students develop judgment about when AI collaboration enhances their thinking versus when it circumvents the learning process? And for those who’ve witnessed or participated in traditional ghostwriting arrangements, what parallels or differences do you see with AI collaboration? I’d welcome your observations and reflections in the comments below.
P.S. I believe transparency builds the trust that AI detection systems fail to enforce. That’s why I’ve published an ethics and AI disclosure statement, which outlines how I integrate AI tools into my intellectual work.