Monica McInerney
Opposite my childhood home in Clare, South Australia, there’s a mosaic sculpture, Girl on a Roof, by local artist Paul Leditschke. More than two metres high, it depicts a young girl on a rooftop, engrossed in a book, leaning against a chimney made of books. That young girl is a representation of me, aged 10.
Throughout my childhood, I spent hours sitting and reading on the real roof of my family house, the railway station master’s residence, far from the noise and bustle of my family below. It was not only the perfect place to sit reading, it became the ideal eavesdropping position.
In my early teens, I learnt that if I clambered on to the roof, crept silently across the corrugated iron – a feat in itself – and got the timing right, I’d be above the back verandah, where most of my family’s private discussions took place. Below me, I heard my parents talk about their seven children, myself included. I heard my sisters talk about friends and relationships. My brothers talked sport and local news. When neighbours visited for chats with my parents, I was four metres above, listening.
This isn’t a confession. I now know it was excellent training to be the author I am today. Because the key to being a novelist is curiosity. Writers are always searching for the spark of an idea, a fragment of an intriguing story, a detail that will fire the imagination. Sometimes a story springs from our own lives and experiences. Sometimes we have to go looking – or listening – for them.
In my novels, I create fictional families, then set off what I call an “emotional explosion” in their midst. I’m intrigued by how different people react to a seismic event: the conflict, comedy, drama, mishaps and misunderstandings that follow.
The woman cried. The man cried. They left before they had finished their main course. Several years later, those 10 minutes of overheard conversation became the seed for my novel.
I trace that back to my childhood on the rooftop, overhearing whispered secrets, local gossip. The people down below were sometimes amused, or shocked, angered or disbelieving. I loved it when someone asked, “Then what happened?” It’s the question that fuels all my novels now: then what happened?
My family home was sold years ago. My roof-sitting days are long over. But my curiosity about people is stronger than ever.
Sometimes what I overhear affects me greatly. One evening in Melbourne, my husband and I booked a table at an Italian bistro. We were seated beside a couple in their late 30s. The acoustics were such that we could hear most of their conversation.
The couple were in their own world. A world of grief and pain, I soon realised. Their only child had died. This was their first night out since it had happened. They were trying – and failing – to find words to say to one another. The woman cried. The man cried. They left before they had finished their main course. Their deep grief stayed with me. Several years later, those 10 minutes of overheard conversation became the seed for my novel The House of Memories, the story of a couple finding their way back from a devastating incident.
Most writers, myself included, try not to use family or friends’ stories. Getting inspiration from strangers can feel different. An exchange overheard on a bus, train or tram might spark an entire novel. So might a snatch of conversation as someone walks by talking on their phone. People waiting in a queue, idly conversing, make great character studies. Pubs, restaurants and cafes are rich in possible material. I don’t wear earphones when I’m out and about, in case I miss something.
I’m not the only writer who does this. The late Irish author Maeve Binchy took things even further. She taught herself to lip-read so she could sit in cafés and “listen in” on private conversations.
In my new novel, When Sullivan Met Lola, I’ve given my lead characters the same curiosity. Lola is an 86-year-old Irishwoman, Sullivan a 12-year-old Melbourne boy, at opposite ends of life, both vulnerable in different ways. Their intense interest in other people brings them together. This sort of interest enriches their lives, as it does mine. But in fiction – and real life – there are sometimes unexpected consequences.
Earlier this year, I was in a cafe, meeting a friend for lunch. I’d arrived early and took out a book to read while I waited. Three empty tables away were two women, both strangers to me. The music was low. I could hear every word they were saying. It only took a moment to realise they were talking about the husband of a friend of mine, mentioning him by name. The talk was of his extra-marital affair.
I was gripped and shocked. I sat motionless, pretending to read. Then my lunch date arrived, halting my listening. I never did tell my friend what I’d heard about her husband, in case it wasn’t true. But I’m sure a similar moral dilemma will find its way into one of my future novels.
On the plaque beside the Girl on a Roof sculpture in Clare there’s a quote from me: “Everything I do as a writer is because I’m a reader.” Perhaps I should add a sentence: “The eavesdropping helps, too.”
When Sullivan Met Lola (Penguin Random House) by Monica McInerney is out now.
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