This week I am going to the Perth Writers Festival. I've signed up for a few courses and have mentioned my plans to see stalk Caroline Overington. She is also going to be there talking about the difference between fact and fiction.
She also very kindly agreed to guest post here today talking about her experience as journalist and fiction writer.
Honoured:
Late in 2008, I signed a contract to write two novels for Random House.
Both of them – Ghost Child, and I Came To Say Goodbye, have now been published – and a third is due out in October.
I’ve been lucky: they’ve sold really well, and reviewers have been kind. Nobody has been hostile to me, for trying to cross the divide between fact and fiction; the support from established writers has been amazing.
I’ve done quite a few interviews about the books, in particular about the second one, which takes the form of a letter from a grandfather, to a Family Court judge. The grandfather, Med, is begging the judge not to be his grandchild into State care, but it’s a big ask, because his family has been torn apart by divorce, mental illness, drug abuse, neglect, and child abuse.
Everything in the book is, of course, true: we all know people who have gone through what Med and his family are going through. We’ve all wondered what we can do to help.
But if I, as a journalist, had tried to tell the story using people from real life, it would never be published. It would be banned.
Let me explain: when people ask me why I started writing novels, after being a journalist for so long, I tell them: it’s the only way you can really tell the truth anymore.
They look at me a bit perplexed.
Journalism is supposed to be about facts. Novels are supposed to be fiction.
But I spent two years on The Australian newspaper, writing about child welfare, child abuse and, sadly, child murder.
The more work I did, the more anguished I became, at being unable to tell readers the whole story.
A child would die – be beaten, or starved to death, or even disappear from the face of the planet – and there was so much we, as reporters, weren’t allowed to say.
In some cases, we were banned from using the child’s name, and photograph.
We were banned from saying whether any other children in the family had ever been abused.
We were banned from saying whether the family was known to have a history of violence, drug abuse, or whether any of them had been in jail for serious crimes.
We were banned from approaching doctors in hospitals, to talk to them about what they’ve seen.
All police statements have to come through a media unit, who do try to be helpful, but are subject to the same rules: don’t say this, and don’t say that.
Of course, journalists have ways of finding things out. They talk to neighbours, and other sources come forward, and that makes the situation so much worse: too many times, I’ve found myself in the position of knowing far, far more than I’ve been able to report, and having to hide that material from readers.
Most journalists loathe being in that position. We are very conscious that we are not anybody special. We have no right to keep information to ourselves. It belongs to you, and to all of us.
Caroline Overington is a two-time winner of the Walkley Award for investigative journalism, and a winner of the Blake Dawson Prize. She has published two novels, with a third due out in October. She will appear at the Perth Writers Festival on Sunday March 6, and Monday March 7, discussing the difference between fact, and fiction. Caroline lives in Bondi with her hubby and 10-year-old twins.
