The real story of Donald Trump
In the late 1980s, Donald J. Trump was a real estate developer who was combining more disasters than he earned, kept afloat only by unlimited bank credit. Anyone without his surname (ie his father’s) would have finished this story with a Winchester 44 magnum exploded in his mouth.
How does a man born and raised in cotton wool, without any competence or personal quality, a sociopath, to become to become famous beyond the boundaries of the real estate market, as a finance guru, business expert, supreme master of the art of negotiation, messiah of managers from all over the world, magnificent rector of a course of studies to become rich, junk TV star and finally president of the United States of America and – with good reason – the most powerful man on earth?
Simple: write a book.
A. Only. Book.
An effort that cost him a few thousand dollars a few months to his ghostwriter.
Thanks to The Art of the Deal, a long-story editorial success, since 1987 the nonchalant Trump has appeared on the public scene as an expert on the things he says, still not understanding a bat. We have discovered, in these months of journalistic investigations at the resolution of the hair that it is twenty years that it does not pay federal taxes, that it is incapable of concentrating on something for more than three minutes and thirty, which assails with some regularity the beautiful women that one finds in front, who is incapable of bearing criticism and pressure, who thinks (and says)
terrible things to any unimaginable minority: women, disabled, war veterans, immigrants and so on.
This is not the place to make political assessments. Here we talk about writing, and its effects: here is the umpteenth proof of what we have known for years (and for which we work):
It doesn’t matter what you are.
What you wrote is more important.
Trump’s political rise is only a demonstration on a planetary level: a well-written book, on its own, has been able to stem the largest adverse press campaign in the history of humanity. One-only-book of 250 pages against billions (billions!) Of virtual and paper words against.
Trump’s ghostwriter, meanwhile, regretted it. He says that if he had imagined it, he would not have written even half a word for him.
We – like him and like Spiderman – are aware that great powers give rise to great responsibilities.
Would we have done it?
- We are asking ourselves these days.
- If in doubt, contact us.