Sabriga Turgon
editor, copywriter, certified ghostwriter (and perpetual truth-seeker)
I have this strange but wonderful name:
Sabriga (“sah-BREE-ga”).
I know it’s unusual and you want to say Sabrina, Sabringa, Sabrika, or even Sabrita. It happens all the time! Not to worry — however you say it, I’ll know who you mean. After all, a rose by any other name…
From Many Paths to One Calling
Before I became a Certified Ghostwriter, I wore many hats, and they all had one thing in common: helping people and the environment.
Much of that work and travel allowed me access to great and intimate moments in people’s lives, taught compassion and respect, and galvanized my commitment to making our world healthy and peaceful.
Now, as a Certified Ghostwriter, I bring that world knowledge and human understanding into every project. My goal is to help you tell your story clearly, authentically, and in a way that touches your readers.
Why Words Matter
Because words shape our world.
Books preserve legacies, launch ideas, spark movements, and connect us across time and culture. Being a ghostwriter allows me to take the stories, expertise, or visions that live in your head and transform them into a book that matters.
This work is about more than writing. It’s about honoring experience, shaping meaning, and giving form to ideas that deserve to be shared.
How I Work
I believe the best books are born from a true partnership: your vision leads; my expertise shapes.
Our work together is designed to transform your concept into a polished, professional manuscript. You bring the unique insight, the personal story, and the deep subject knowledge. I bring the craft: the structural design, the narrative pacing, and the market awareness.
Together, we don’t just write a book — we create a finished manuscript that is both deeply meaningful to you and strategically marketable to your audience.
A Personal Note on Story and Memory
One of my favorite films is Genius — the true story of legendary book editor Max Perkins and his collaboration with the brilliant but tormented Thomas Wolfe. It captures the messy, passionate, beautiful process of writing: laying bare your soul, ruthless editing, sacrificing for your art.
That same passion for words and truth fuels my work with clients.
When I think about how truth and stories collide, I always remember sitting with my father as he took his final breath, and how each of my family members recalls that moment so differently. None of our memories are radically different, but none are completely accurate either.
Isn’t that the nature of human memory? Intimate, imperfect, and deeply personal. And isn’t that why stories matter — not as fixed facts, but as lived truth.
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When my father died in his bed, nearly all of his small family were with him in his bedroom where we’d set up the folding chairs.
Five people sat quietly staring at a shrunken and wasted man dying of lung cancer at only 59 years old. In the bedroom next door slept his only grandchild, who would turn one year old tomorrow. For five torturous years he’d struggled, and though we didn’t want to lose him, we wanted him to stop suffering.
I was at the foot of the bed where my father—the mighty man who could once fix or build anything, who lifted his children off the floor as we hung on his biceps—lay gurgling through his final breaths. Such long pauses separated each one, I thought surely this must be his last.
Suddenly, I saw us as cold spectators to an isolated man’s last moments before taking the journey we all take alone. I couldn’t bear that he was by himself while we all stared with our still-healthy eyes.
Creeping carefully onto the bed, I laid my body alongside my father’s skeletal frame so he could feel my warmth, and held his hand. It was the most intimate moment he and I had ever shared.
There was a quiet collective gasp of surprise.
“Dad,” I said, “it’s OK to let go now. You’ve been a great father; you did a wonderful job. We’re all here, loving you and sending you on your way. Thank you for all you did and gave us, Dad. It’s OK to be done now. I love you, Dad. It’s OK to let go.”
One by one, our family began to slide forward. Pulling their chairs as close as they could, each one touched the bed, held the part of his clothing they could reach, or sat next to him, gifting him their own last precious words of love.
My mother, who’d nursed and comforted him through his cancer fear, anger, and despair, sighed and nodded from the foot of the bed. All the important things had long been said between them. They’d held each other for so many years—through so much—that she let everyone else get in close for their last touch. “Let go, Honey,” she said, “Let go, my love.”
His mother, doing what no mother should have to do, watched her child struggle to be in this world but need to be out of it. Her folding chair was pushed against the bed next to his leg, where her tiny wrinkled hand touched the only part of him she could reach, his ankle. She silently dabbed her pale eyes with one hand and refused to let go with the other. His sister laid a hand on her mother’s back and another on her brother’s leg. “It’s OK, Bus,” she said, using his childhood nickname. “It’s OK.”
My sister slid alongside the bed to hold his hand. “I love you, Dad,” she murmured through her tears to the father who’d loved her and taught her and bequeathed his skills to her. “It’s time to let go, Dad,” she sobbed, “I love you so much.” Her head dropped onto her hand holding his, hot tears dripping across his fingers and wetting the blanket.
The room was thick with stifled sobs, flooding memories, the scent of death, and anticipated relief.
That’s how I remember that last vigil…
But when our family talks about this memory now, decades later, everyone has their own version of it. None of them are radically different, but none of them are completely accurate.
And that’s the problem with the human brains holding our memories—they’re fallible.
Ready to Begin?
The time for planning is over. Now it’s time for production.
When you’re ready to move your idea, your expertise, or your legacy from concept into a finished manuscript, let’s connect. I can’t wait to hear about your vision and explore how we can bring your unique message to life.