Ghost-Work
On showing up, disappearing, and the ghost-work of documentary filmmaking
No matter your age or background, if you want to make documentaries, you’ll need to master what I think of as ghost-work: the art of being both invisible and unforgettable. To be the person no one notices in the moment—but the one they remember when it counts.
You will constantly have to remind people: Hey, I’m making a film about your life. You’d think that would be top of mind—but it rarely is. People have lives. Jobs. Health problems. Kids. They are not thinking about your camera, your edit.
And while showing up without putting yourself front and center might sound counter to our culture of self-branding, I’ve found it’s often the best way forward in documentary work.
Not invisibility—but awareness.
Not absence—but humility.
I’ll start with what I know: I’m a straight, white, able-bodied woman from West Virginia. I’m small—5’3”—and English is my native language. These facts aren’t the whole of me, but they shape how I move through the world. They affect how I’m perceived, what rooms I can enter without question, and what risks I calculate without even thinking.
It’s why I carry pepper spray. Why I won’t pump gas alone at night if there’s no clerk on duty. Why I prepare. Why I plan.
In my early twenties, people assumed I was a student. Older adults would brush me off, ask if I was doing a “class project.” At the time, that worked in my favor. I got access to meetings and spaces I probably wouldn’t have otherwise—because I was underestimated.
But aging changes your access too. I’m now in my late-thirties, a mother. I look more like someone who might be in charge. That changes the vibe in the room. And I’ve had to adjust.
I’m not trying to reinforce stereotypes, but we all carry facts—some chosen, many not. We carry them whether or not we name them. And they shape how we do this work.
The good news is, your identity doesn’t always work against you. Sometimes it’s the very thing that lets you in.
Maybe you’re drawn to a story because of your lived experience. You grew up with a single mom, and now you’re filming the lives of single mothers. Or you lost a sibling, and now you’re drawn to grief in all its forms. That connective tissue is real. It’s honest. And it matters—especially when you're explaining why you want to tell another person’s story.
But just as important as why you’re there is how your presence changes the room. Here’s something I don’t hear enough: you have to get good at disappearing. And I don’t just mean in verité or “fly-on-the-wall” filmmaking.
Here’s a word of caution: I see younger filmmakers—sometimes unintentionally—confusing their own presence and identity as the central force in the room. They shadow the participant. They absorb the space. And it’s not a good look.
If you want to make the story about you, do that. But don’t make it about you in front of someone else. It’s disrespectful.
Take a back seat. Open your ears. Pretend to be someone who believes people can surprise you. Pretend you don’t know everything. That you don’t have all the answers.
If that frustrates you—if you expect to always be invited in, front row, warmly welcomed as the holder of knowledge —then you may not enjoy this kind of work.
Unless, of course, you’re making a personal film. Then you have to insert yourself into your own life. Which is a whole other kind of vulnerability. A whole other kind of discomfort.
So—who are you?
You’re not the center. But you’re not irrelevant, either.
You’re a vessel. A presence. A listener. A shape-shifter.
Sometimes a bridge. Sometimes a mirror.
Sometimes just someone holding a boom mic in the rain.
You are important—but not in the way you think.
And if you can let go of being important, you might actually become useful.