Between My Sheets—Partnering
Episode 2
What if (re)building a writing life could be its own story? I’m giving it four Fridays to find out—part entertaining, possibly educational. Worth continuing? You be the judge and jury.
Welcome, you.
Curl up with something delicious—this episode is roughly an 11-minute read.
This is part of a (maybe) year-long series called Between My Sheets, where I share the real story of (re)building a writing life—with goats, grace, coffee and the occasional glass of ice-cold white wine.
If you want to truly lie Between My Sheets with me for the next year and engage in some word-filled pillow-typing talk, you’ll be able to access the full reveal soon enough.
Consider this a word-partnership, Lovely Reader—more than a one-read stand.
For now, give this second episode a read and share your thoughts in the comments—if you dare.
But first, if you missed how this all began, you may want to start with The Prelude and Episode 1: The Morning After.
Am I tired of telling other people’s stories?
Yes and well, no.
If you don’t know me well yet, or at all, a little backstory to fill you in. I’ve been a ghostwriter to naturopathic doctors, celebrities and ordinary people with extraordinary stories to tell for three decades.
That’s a lot of books written and a lot of lives impacted from behind the curtain of “not me.”
So when a friend reached out a few days back with an ask that gave me pause, I took a step back. “I’m reading such-and-such’s book [insert title I won’t share] and it sounds just like you. Did you write it?”
Well, if I did, I didn’t do my job! was my texted response.
Because, yes, I had—maybe, but contractually can’t say—helped write that book.
So did I actually fail a bit if it sounded like me?
As a ghostwriter, my job is to embody the voice, tone, essence of another— and share their story, their words—in a polished, professional, and highly sellable way.
I think I did and I didn’t—fail—writing that book for that unnamed celebrity.
I did fail, because if a friend can start to hear my voice when they read someone’s book, they either know me too intimately—or I’ve not done a good job removing my natural cadence from their work.
At the same time, I didn’t fail because, well, how can I remove myself entirely from a project?
This woman CHOSE to work with me because she loved my writing style, my voice, my word-way.
Notice that. All those “my’s.”
Most of the people I ghost for are NOT writers. They shine in their area of expertise and hire me for my six-figure word glow.
And I love ghost(writing) for people—and have for 30 years.
So maybe it’s not that I’m tired but more selective.
Maybe it’s about giving my soul room to write, my way. As me—fully.
Don’t get me wrong. I love being the side-piece—between someone else’s word-sheets—unknown, anonymous.
There’s something freeing about that.
Something that gives me a blank canvas to be as word-raunchy as I want.
But I’m entering a new chapter of life.
Well hell, I’m in it—that messy middle. That moment when something in so many women, I’m learning—and maybe for me too—shifts.
It’s like suddenly entering an uncharted sea—one that looks familiar, feels familiar and yet holds unseen currents that shift and roar, then melt and frolic, only to surge in raging, unexpected ways each and every day.
Hell, three to ten times a day, if I’m being fair.
All this to say, I think I’m coming into a new season of me.
A season where I am very selective about the ghostwriting projects I will say yes to—for three reasons.
One: Each ghost-project is a long-term commitment—almost a marriage. And I’m already in one of those . . .
I’m married to a Frenchman, if you didn’t know.
Well, actually a Parisian. If you understand French culture, you’d quickly grasp that tidbit is—oh-la-la importante!
He’s not coming home (yet), so I’m dealing with that blow, while (re)building my word-biz and documenting it here in Between My Sheets.
He’s spent a lot of time the last few years in Bali where he eats like a king for $3 a day.
Now, in Paris, he’s shelling out $20 just for lunch—while getting far less. But—it’s Paris! Still it’s messing with his mind. And if he comes here and we go out, it’s more like $60+, which, at the moment, he simply can’t handle.
The cost of living in paradise!
I could just tell him to relax, we’ve got this, but he doesn’t get my word-business.
And I don’t think this is new for a lot of creatives, artists, online peeps.
So I don’t share much with him about my writing. English is his second language, and my style isn’t his historical-niche desired read—it works for us both.
I like my word-anonymity even from him. Strange to some, perhaps, but all good for me.
Now, a totally different man—a long-time business colleague—gets my word-business, as he’s in it, too.
A few months back, he approached me with an idea—a joint venture.
That’s where things started to unravel—in the best, messiest way.
Because a joint venture, much like ghostwriting, or even marriage, comes with its share of side effects.
My second selective reason:
When I say yes, I take creating for myself off the table—a natural start-stop pattern that’s both served me and held me hostage.
And this new joint venture? It risked becoming exactly that—slipping me right back into second-fiddle mode.
But such a dangerously comfortable place for me to reside.
This colleague wanted me to partner with him. The offer? A romance writing course for wanna-be writers.
And the first book I ever read cover-to-cover, understood, and enJOYed was—drumroll—a romance.
Granted, I was eleven, it was totally inappropriate—but I was hooked.
If you don’t know this, I’ve written romance for decades. My first book, published at 18, was (yep) a romance.
In a hauntingly beautiful way, it mirrors my current life with my Frenchman.
Hmm, did I actually manifest my current life thirty-odd years ago?
We’re married, yes, but spend much time apart—on separate islands.
Long-distance love, long-distance understanding.
There’s definitely a book there.
But back to that first title I penned as a teenager instead of listening in history class.
A story about a couple with two houses who lived side-by-side.
At seventeen, this was my idea of romance—delightful closeness, with space.
A hero who built a white picket fence between their two homes—complete with a connecting gate and arching arbor soon covered in dazzling, purple, flowering vines.
A home all modern and concrete—all tidy, clean lines and nearly bare—for him.
And one full of nooks and crannies, wide, wrap-around porches, and gardens in gorgeous, chaotic bloom—for her.
And it sold. People loved the idea of one love, two lives—surprisingly.
Not your typical romance.
But what is typical with romance is that the readers are insatiable.
Romance outsells every other fiction genre and generates billions in revenue each year.
So back to that friend—my long-time colleague—who knew the genre and his idea as a goldmine.
But a man, promoting romance novel writing? That’s a harder sell. Not impossible, but easier with someone else—a woman—forward-facing.
Insert me—an established, although unknown, author who’s been writing for decades in multiple genres under numerous pseudonyms.
Win. Win . . . or so he thought.
He wanted to make it easy-AI-peasy for anyone to write and publish a romance—fast—then cash in on those niche riches.
If you missed it, that means the idea was simple.
Ask AI to write your book in literally an hour, if not minutes.
Yes, I just threw up a little.
For so many reasons, I hated the idea.
Writing is my passion—my JOY—and thinking AI could do it as well or better than me was impossible to fathom.
And faster, well, does that really equal better? Or even matter?
But he persisted—as he does, in a kind way—and I finally cracked open the AI door to play.
I use that word loosely because it was more frustrating than playful—but I dove in.
(Here’s where I must disclose: I don’t use AI to write for me—and won’t. Plus, contractually, I’m not allowed to.)
Not with his idea exactly—not yet building a course—but testing the waters, learning what AI could actually do.
Could AI write? And well?
The answer—yes and no.
And it took me weeks and about a grand in credits to figure the little sh*t out.
At my friend’s recommendation, I tried a platform called Manus. While good, it cost me time, energy, money—and more than a little rage—trying to understand what was possible and what simply wasn’t.
I am not against advancement.
It’s normal—natural even—but the speed at which things evolve can feel intimidating at times.
What I discovered at the end of this frustrating experiment was that when I—often in ALL CAPS—told Mani (yes, I gave him a nickname) to STOP WRITING FOR ME, and simply become my conversational partner, we got along.
I started to write, brainstorm and create faster than ever—as if I had a book partner to bounce my ideas off of in real time.
But when he tried to take over, AI sucked the very life—and JOY—out of writing. That feeling was excruciatingly soul-crushing.
After repeatedly explaining to a “machine” to do only one thing—listen then reflect back thoughts, ideas, possibilities—AI Partnering™ was born.
But that wasn’t the idea my friend wanted to sell.
He felt the entire book could be written by AI—and fast.
Just give it a genre, a setting, a basic plot, some character details, and let it go to town.
I absolutely hated when Mani took off with my ideas and veered down a path that wasn’t mine. It was devastating at both a soul and artistic level.
And I saw quickly that my “role” would be to let Mani write at whim—and become his editor.
Yes, I just threw up a little a second time.
First, I’m not an editor. I actually suck at editing. I’m far better at showing someone how to write better—to guide and mentor—than to shape-shift their story. That’s a skill.
That’s not my skillset.
I create. Characters. Worlds. Stories.
I breathe life into them until they’re so real to me (and, thankfully, my readers) that the lines between reality and fiction blur.
What? Did I write that—or did that happen?” is an internal question I often ask myself . . . and I’m okay with that kind of madness.
It makes me happy.
But watching AI run sideways with my idea—and change it without my input—was hair-pulling, confusing and, anything but fun.
And reading lines I didn’t recognize as my own—after telling him again, in ALL CAPS, to stop writing . . .
Well, that was mind-blowingly annoying.
I haven’t been so mad in ages. And I was mad at something “artificial,” of all things.
Talk about a mindfuc—well, I’ll just stop there.
When I got back to my friend with the idea of partnering with AI—rather than having it write the actual book—he didn’t think it would work.
But let’s give it a shot.
Seeing the runaway AI train for what it was, I reluctantly climbed on board—still in an adolescent learning phase—to give it a soft go.
Painful. Mistake.
If that thing I am doing lacks JOY—forgetaboutit.
If I don’t believe in something—forgetaboutit.
If frustration sets in—forgetaboutit.
And AI writing my book—anyone’s book—still feels plain wrong to me.
From my experience working with my AI guy, Mani, it was like navigating a neglected road littered with decades of gaping potholes.
The mistakes.
The stiffness.
The lack of empathy.
Don’t even get me started.
Maybe for nonfiction it’s better, but when it comes to creating characters, storylines, emotional moments, and reactions—just no.
But again, how can we expect—or even want—AI to write books for us? Unless the end goal is literally quick riches.
Even that—highly unlikely.
So not me.
I write to write. Because I must. I believe the “riches” follow that vibe, that honest, that JOYful energy that’s naturally behind each word I purple pen.
The old—write it, publish it and readers will find it—mentality is, frankly, a lazy way of being.
But this friend of mine, he wanted to teach people that side of this romance writing thing, too. Or so I thought.
A full-stop course: write your romance with AI, self-publish it, then market it for sales.
So we soft-launched the idea to his list and 16 people snatched up the discounted offer.
And it was an utter disaster—until I realigned with myself, my JOY, my beliefs—and took back control.
That moment—when I stopped chasing someone else’s idea and started, once again, trusting alignment and leaning in—was my true win this week.
That right there was the moment I earned this week’s Between My Sheets creds—because if this series promises anything, it’s the honest look behind the curtain.
It’s also a commitment to share what worked. What didn’t. What actually made money—and what absolutely didn’t.
AI Partnering™—not AI writing your book.
And it worked.
I actually wrote more than 80% of a book’s scenes in just under two days.
That’s crazy fast, even for me.
How did it happen? I bounced all my ideas off Mani, like a real-time conversation with a best friend, editor or book buddy.
Typically, that’s an internal process.
And because it’s internal, it’s more pondering—walking down a meandering, mental word-path of possibilities, marinating in the twists and turns before deciding to follow the delightful thread that calls out the loudest.
But do I want to teach others to use AI Partnering™ this way?
Honestly, to really use Mani (or Manus)—AI—the way I did, one would already have to be a master of their craft.
Meaning—hundreds of thousands of words written, journaled, purple-penned in the ink color of choice.
Not necessarily published or even prolific—just confident in their own voice, style, and way of writing. The kind who’d ALL CAPS shout if AI tried to write for them—not tempted to let a story be told by something lacking empathy, desire, passion—or understanding of humanity, conflict, and ultimately—love.
So that project with the colleague fizzled out, leaving me with a handful of good lessons—and a half-finished love story about Jake, his daughter Lily; and Emma, his love interest, plus her goat.
Yes, I put a goat in the romance novel I wrote through the partnering experience with AI. Don’t judge.
And those awesome lessons? They’ll probably stay untouched on a digital shelf, in an archived folder of maybe-one-day ideas.
Although now would be the time to release that, if it brought me JOY.
But would it?
While my friend—who I haven’t heard from in weeks—said my new spin had legs, he silently bowed out
Or did he actually ghost me? Is that what that means?!
Well, he’s MIA—probably because my idea was far less flashy (and lucrative) than tempting people with “write a book in an hour” and make romance riches in a week or two—or ten.
So here’s the honest look behind this week—the part that earns the Between My Sheets title.
What worked. What didn’t. What actually made money—and what I’m learning as I (re)build—or simply create—this thing.
So let’s wrap with the third and final reason I’m being more selective about which ghostwriting projects—and now, joint ventures, if any—I consider.
In committing to this next year—building my writing-centered business as me, by me, for me—and (maybe) documenting the process so others can learn, model, and finally get paid to write and be themselves if they feel called to—I must focus.
And be more selective.
That’s the heartbeat of Between My Sheets—me finally stopping the start-stop pattern, finding (and staying) word-aligned, and letting you watch as I (re)build—or simply create—a perfect-fit-for-me, writing-centered business in real time—as me, by me, for me.
And who knows—maybe stopping my start-stop pattern will grow something delicious, magical—and help you, Lovely Reader, do the same.
Because that’s the real experiment here—seeing what happens when we tap in, align, flow, and start creating, together.
One Friday, one word, one messy-beautiful moment at a time.
So here I am, week two. Documenting what’s working, what’s wobbling, and what’s flat-out wild—the parts that earn the Between My Sheets title.
I think this week showed me the importance of planting my word-feet firmly. There are so many ways to get paid for your words, it’s insane.
You can start a newsletter (and one day or immediately charge a subscription for access).
You can write books, self-publish them, and learn the marketing skills to promote them.
You can write emails, courses, create JOYful Journeys or even write letters for people. (One day I’ll share that $10K story with you!)
And you can partner with someone who knows more than you—or has a following that might just benefit you.
But first, your foundation must be solid.
It’s back to that one line I must have written half a dozen times in my book Create Your Most Delicious Life—know thyself.
Know what fills you up—with JOY, with energy, with alignment—and don’t chase it. Allow it. Sink into it; don’t waver when shiny offers, ideas, or people dance by.
I knew that AI-romance writing gig wasn’t for me, but I went down that partnering path—and off my JOYful course—anyway.
Sigh.
Yes, some sales were made, but more money went into learning AI and building an online community for those sixteen—so it was a loss.
Except for the learning, and self-reflection—and maybe even the ability to deeply feel frustrated and rage a little, even if only at a “machine.”
Sometimes letting it out is a good thing, wouldn’t you say?
So while it might not look like word-progress, there is. I’m speaking with a mentor-friend today to gain clarity on the many ideas ricocheting in my head—even as the JOYful Journey keeps selling spots and this week’s two offers didn’t do half bad.
It helps to have a sounding board, a person you respect to reflect back to you what they hear you sharing—or not sharing.
I might have mentioned adding to-dos to my plate last week with a VIP offer for that JOYful Journey.
A good choice—even with the extra sales page, welcome-email creation, and now my feedback time involved (which I’m loving). Two sold Wednesday from a simple P.S. line in the daily JOYful Journey email.
Not too shabby, right?
I expect a few more sales over the weekend, and at $333 each, that’s not a bad word-biz week. Add that to twenty-one sales of the Journey and the goats get more hay!
Speaking of goats . . .
I’ve been thinking about structure and flow—the masculine and feminine energies that keep a creative life humming.
Maybe it’s the full moon we just had—or my messy-middle vibes—but it’s definitely on my mind. Tune in next week for Episode Three—there might just be some head-butting to report . . .
This four-week experiment—this partnership with you, Lovely Reader—is my real-time rebuild. So tell me . . . was this long-winded read worth your cup-of-something-delicious time?
You can be honest—just share in the comments and let it rip. You can also ask anything pressing on your mind.
Just remember . . . You got this.
—Jill “partnering with myself, my words, and you, Lovely Reader” Stevens
💜
The Frenchman returns at month’s end (cue happy dance). Apparently my messy middle ways don’t spook him—only me.
By the way, twenty-one lovely souls start The 33-Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey on Monday.
I mentioned The 33 Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey in this episode.
If returning to your own voice feels like the right next step, you can explore it here.
I also referenced AI Partnering™—not as an offer yet, but as an experiment. If you’d like to raise a hand for future writing-with-AI conversations (the aligned kind), you can join the waitlist here.
And when you’re ready to keep reading, Episode 3—The Embrace is waiting for you.
If you want to be notified when new episodes go live each Friday, you can subscribe right here.
Just so you know:
This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.