“All your clients are men.”

He says it like he’s already decided it’s true. Just checking I won’t dispute it.

The bar is quiet in that expensive way—low light, spaced tables, the kind of place built for people who don’t want to be overheard but still want to be seen. Outside, Los Angeles moves like it’s not part of the conversation.

He’s watching me more than he’s talking.

I take a beat.

“Yeah,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Because?”

“Because men still hold most of the high-level power in the industries I work in.”

A small nod. Like that fits.

He leans back slightly. “That’s not really an answer.”

“It is,” I say.

A half-smile. “That’s the structural answer. Not the personal one.”

I don’t correct him.

He taps the glass once. Ice shifts.

“So what’s the personal one?”

I look at him. Let it sit.

Then: “I prefer it.”

That pulls a reaction. Small, but real.

He gives a short laugh. “You prefer it.”

“Working with men,” I say. “They’re cleaner. Straight shooters. Less interpretation. Less performance. You don’t have to translate intent through layers of feeling.”

He studies me now.

“That sounds like a criticism.”

“It’s not,” I say. “It’s efficiency.”

He smirks. “That’s a polite way of saying you don’t like dealing with emotion.”

I shrug slightly. “I like dealing with power.”

A beat.

He turns the glass. Slower now.

“So you’re saying women don’t have power?”

I don’t take the bait.

“I’m saying men don’t decorate it as much.”

That lands differently.

He looks down at his drink, then back up. “And that’s why they hire you.”

“Not hire,” I say. “Call me.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” I say. “Different room.”

That makes him pause.

On the street, a car passes. Light cuts across the glass between us.

He leans forward again. “So what do they call you for, in your words?”

I don’t hesitate.

“To keep what they’re building from getting diluted before it hits the rooms that matter.”

He nods slowly. Like he’s filing it away.

“And you like that.”

I meet his eyes.

“I like clarity.”

A beat.

He sets the glass down a little harder than before. Not dramatic. Just final.

“You don’t sound like someone who fixes things,” he says.

I almost smile.

“I don’t,” I say. “I make them hold.”

Silence settles properly this time.

Not empty. Decided.

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Susannah Breslin is the founder of The Fixer, a strategic communications consultancy. She helps CEOs, founders, and venture capitalists cut through noise, control the narrative, and navigate crises. If you’re ready to stop guessing and start fixing, contact her here.

When someone asks me what the most challenging work I do as a corporate fixer is, the answer is always crisis communications. Typically, by the time a client calls me, things have already gone sideways. A mess has been made, and it’s up to me to clean it up. It’s stressful, messy, and a bit like wrestling with an octopus—but that’s what makes it interesting.

1. Stop apologizing. Apologies have become the reflex in a crisis: almost never written by the person in charge and almost always overstuffed with fake humility. People see through it. These “sorry not sorry” statements make you look weak, desperate, and untrustworthy. In most cases, I tell my clients: don’t apologize. Own your actions through decisive moves, not manufactured words.

2. Stop listening to sycophants. Your yes-people will betray you the second things get rough. They’ll tell you it’s not that bad, flatter your instincts, or switch positions with the wind. In a crisis, you need truth-tellers, not status-keepers. That’s why sometimes you hire someone like me: someone who has skin in the game—but not all of it.

3. Stop explaining yourself. Most leaders panic and dump every detail, every excuse, every backstory onto the public. That just makes you look defensive, messy, and guilty. The smarter move? Say only what matters. Keep it minimal. Control the narrative with action, not words. Let people see you handling it—don’t try to make them understand it.

Crisis communications isn’t about saying the right thing. It’s about not saying the wrong thing—and doing the right thing fast. Stop apologizing. Stop listening to yes-people. Stop over-explaining. Start moving.

Crisis doesn’t wait. Neither do I. If you’re serious about handling it, let’s talk.

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Susannah Breslin is the founder of The Fixer, a strategic communications consultancy. She helps CEOs, founders, and venture capitalists cut through noise, control the narrative, and navigate crises. If you’re ready to stop guessing and start fixing, get in touch here.

People imagine ghostwriting as a kind of literary cosplay.

You slip on someone else’s voice, dash off a few op-eds, maybe a book, maybe a speech, collect a check, disappear. Harmless. Elegant. A little Gatsby-esque.

That’s not what I do.

Ghostwriting for high-net-worth individuals is not about words. It’s about power, risk, identity, and control—usually at moments when those things feel newly unstable.

I don’t get called when everything is going well.

I get called when someone has money, visibility, influence—and a creeping sense that the story around them is starting to drift out of alignment.

The Real Job

My actual job is this:

To say the things my clients cannot say themselves, in a way that protects their status, preserves optionality, and advances their long game.

That means:

• Translating raw thought into language that sounds effortless, inevitable, and earned

• Stripping out ego without humiliating the ego

• Designing voice as a strategic asset, not a personality exercise

Every sentence has consequences.
Every word is a signal.

And the client usually knows this instinctively, even if they can’t articulate it.

The Clients

High-net-worth clients are not a monolith, but they share a few traits:

They are extremely intelligent.
They are used to being deferred to.
They are often verbally underdeveloped relative to their power.

Many made their money through speed, leverage, or technical brilliance—not articulation. Others can talk endlessly, but say very little of consequence.

Almost all of them are managing multiple audiences at once:

• Investors

• Boards

• Ex-spouses

• Current partners

• Adult children

• Employees

• The press

• The internet

What they want from a ghostwriter is not “better writing.”

They want containment.

Confidentiality Isn’t a Feature. It’s the Product

The most valuable thing I offer is not prose.

It’s discretion under pressure.

When someone is paying five figures a month for ghostwriting, editing, and advisory work, what they’re really buying is:

• Someone who can hold their unfiltered thinking without reacting

• Someone who knows when not to publish

• Someone who will tell them “no”

I see drafts that never leave my screen.
I hear stories that will never be repeated.
I reshape narratives the public will never know were once unstable.

This is not creative writing.
It’s risk management with syntax.

The Psychological Layer (The Part No One Talks About)

Here’s the part people don’t expect:

Ghostwriting at this level is intimate.

Not emotionally messy, but psychologically precise.

To write as someone, you have to understand:

• What they’re afraid of being seen as

• Where they overcompensate

• What they need to believe about themselves in order to function

Often, the writing problem is actually an identity problem.

The client says:
“I want to sound more visionary.”
“I want to come across as grounded.”
“I don’t want to alienate anyone.”

What they mean is:
“I’m no longer sure who I am in this next chapter.”

My work sits at that fault line.

Why I Don’t Call It “Voice Matching”

I don’t mimic voices.
I architect them.

Voice, at this level, is not authenticity theater. It’s a strategic construct, one that must survive scrutiny, scaling, and stress.

The question is never:
“Does this sound like you?”

The question is:
“Does this version of you hold in the rooms you’re trying to enter next?”

That’s the difference between ghostwriting for visibility and ghostwriting for power.

Why This Work Is Expensive—And Rare

Good ghostwriters are invisible.

Excellent ones are nearly impossible to replace.

Because this work requires:

• Literary skill

• Strategic intelligence

• Psychological fluency

• Legal and reputational awareness

• And the discipline to never center yourself

You cannot outsource this to a junior associate.
You cannot rush it.
And you cannot fake the judgment.

Which is why most people who try to hire “a writer” end up frustrated—until they realize what they actually need is a fixer who works in language.

Final Thought

If you’re a high-net-worth individual considering a ghostwriter, here’s the litmus test:

If what you want is to be more visible—hire a marketer.
If what you want is to be more articulate—hire an editor.
If what you want is to control the narrative while the stakes are high—that’s when you call someone like me.

I don’t give you a voice.

I make sure the one you’re using doesn’t cost you later.

If you want your words to protect you, not betray you, we should talk.

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Susannah Breslin is the founder of The Fixer, a strategic communications consultancy.

As the founder of The Fixer, a boutique strategic consultancy serving CEOs, founders, and high-level executives, I specialize in strategic communications, crisis management, executive coaching, and reputation risk. I work with leading tech companies, venture capitalists, and discreet power players. With a background as an accomplished author and investigative journalist, I deliver clarity, strategy, and results where stakes are highest. These are the top three reasons people hire me.

#1: You’ve been cancelled

You said the wrong thing or you did the wrong thing, or something you said or something you did was misinterpreted—or at least that’s what you think. Either way, you have a problem or you think this may become a problem at some point. You’re not sure what to do: apologize or not apologize, try to fix it yourself or try to get someone else to fix it for you, do what a Google search suggests you do or do what your spouse / friend / relative who had something similar happen says you should do.

The big time crisis communications firm you contacted was helpful in your initial consultation, but you suspect that despite the six-figures they’re going to charge you they’re going to punt you to a junior associate. The woman in PR that you spoke to seems better equipped at sending out press releases than she is at wrestling the octopus that has wound its arms around you. The attorney who is a friend of a friend that you talked to at last weekend’s dinner party is smart, but he doesn’t really get the ins and outs of navigating this space. So, you engage me.

#2: You want to change the narrative

You’ve been covered in the media. It’s good, or it’s bad, or either way that doesn’t matter because it’s not the story you want to tell about yourself. You see yourself in some other way, or you want other people to see you in some other way, or you’re not getting the coverage that you want in the publications you want. You think you know what the story you want to tell about yourself is, but you’re not one hundred percent sure because you’re in the business of business not the business of stories.

You need a unicorn: someone who can help you craft and shape the story about yourself that you aim to tell, a person versed in how the media sausage gets made, a consultant who gets you and your story and can ghost this story of you. You realize what you require is not a communications maven but a human Swiss Army Knife: a storyteller, a media insider, a strategic consultant. So, you engage me.

#3: You need a consigliere

It’s time to face the facts. You’re a founder, not a leader. You’re an inventor, not a CEO. You’re a creative, not a COO. Despite the fact that your business is growing or because you’re experiencing a dip due to economic headwinds or a combination of forces, you recognize that you need help. The guys on your level are your competition. The people who work for you are sycophants. The usual consultants don’t know what they’re talking about because what you require isn’t really what they do.

What you need is a sounding board for your ideas, a murder board for your strategic plan, a consigliere who delivers shrewd advice with a dose of emotional intelligence and objective savvy. You need someone ballsy enough to stop you from doing the dumb shit you want to do, someone smart enough to point out the killer moves high stakes require, someone vigilant enough to anticipate the vulnerabilities before they happen. It’s not about ego; it’s about adding value. So, you engage me.

If you’re ready to get started, let’s talk.

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Susannah Breslin is the founder of The Fixer, a boutique strategic consultancy.

He walked in like he owned the place, which, technically, he did. CEO of a company that made a lot of money, sure—but nothing about him suggested anyone would remember his name in ten years. He had the posture of someone who thought meetings were proof of genius, which made me want to laugh, but I didn’t. Not yet.

“What I need,” he said, “is a way to cement my legacy.”

I raised an eyebrow. Legacy. Right. Most people confuse being busy with being important. He wanted a book. Of course he did. Every CEO thinks a book will turn them into a visionary. They rarely do.

Over the next hour, I watched him wrestle with words the way a toddler wrestles with broccoli. He wanted a narrative, but every sentence sounded like it had been written by someone afraid of their own ideas. Ghostwriter, naturally. Of course.

The problem wasn’t his story. It was him. He wanted to be remembered without ever being uncomfortable, to be brilliant without ever thinking too hard. And that’s what most people get wrong: the book isn’t about the legacy you imagine. It’s about the parts of yourself you can’t fake, the truths you’re too scared to confront, and the thinking that actually scares you.

He wouldn’t like that. Most CEOs don’t. But I did.

I didn’t say anything as he sat there, fumbling with the cuffs of his jacket like it would somehow make him profound. I just slid a notebook across the table. “Let’s start,” I said.

He looked at it like it was a grenade. Then something shifted. For the first time in the hour, he wasn’t posturing. He was curious. Terrified, but curious. And that’s when I knew: this would work.

By the end of the week, he’d signed on. Not a handshake, not a vague promise—an actual commitment. We’d turn the book he wanted into the book he needed. The one he’d be embarrassed to admit was brilliant until everyone else started noticing.

You’ve made your mark. A book makes it stick. Writing it won’t be easy—you’ll need a partner who can turn your story into something that actually lasts. That’s where I come in.

Ready to get started?

I only take a handful of projects each year. If this is yours, let’s talk.

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Who I Am

A strategic advisor — called when things get messy, sensitive, or reputationally expensive

What I Do

1. Strategic communications — shaping the story before it shapes you

2. Crisis management — cleaning up when everything’s on fire

3. Executive coaching — tuning power and presence for the boardroom and beyond

4. Risk & optics — translating complexity into clear moves for leadership

5. Business strategy — steering decisions that matter, quietly and effectively

Who You Are

Name: Mark
Age: 52
Location: Primarily based in Brentwood (LA), Tribeca (NYC), or Pacific Heights (SF) — all ZIP codes that know how to whisper money.
Marital Status: Divorced once, currently in a long-term relationship with a woman ~10–15 years younger. No interest in marrying again.
Sexual Orientation: Worldly. Has dated wildly in earlier years. Still thinks of himself as sexually adventurous.
Kids: Two — one in college (liberal arts, probably Bard), one in high school (a bit of a “problem kid,” which he vaguely blames on the ex).
Education: Ivy League or Stanford, maybe a Harvard MBA on top.
Title: Founding Partner, Managing Director, or CEO.
Field: Venture Capital, Film/TV Producing, Media, or Tech-adjacent startups. Possibly an ex-founder who cashed out, now investing and “visioning.”
Annual Compensation: $1.2M–$3M/year (salary + bonuses + equity).
Net Worth: $15M–$75M, depending on exits, trust fund access, and divorces.
Vehicle: Tesla Plaid, black Range Rover, or a vintage car he pretends he restored himself.
Wardrobe: Rag & Bone jeans, John Varvatos boots, Tod’s driving shoes, Patagonia vest when with LPs, Loewe sunglasses.
Reading: The Economist, Puck, Air Mail, Ben Smith, and whatever his assistant prints out from X.
Phone Background: His daughter’s film still or an astronaut on the moon.
Vice(s): Microdoses occasionally, hasn’t been truly sober since 2009. Big into “wellness” but drinks tequila neat. Pays for privacy.
Therapy: Yes — executive coach, meditation retreat guy, and a therapist for optics.

Sound like you? Let’s talk.

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