He’s the screenwriter behind big Kiwi TV hits such as Nothing Trivial, Filthy Rich and This is Not My Life, but Gavin Strawhan has now turned his hand to books. In this exclusive essay for the Herald, he reveals the real-life inspiration behind his debut crime novel The Call.
Half a lifetime ago, I took a strange turn and ended up living in Sydney, working as a script editor and writer on Neighbours. It was that, or a short order cook at a Bondi cafe. I think I made the right choice, although it did interfere with my plans to become a playwright and novelist. A few years later it led me to setting up the script department for Shortland Street, followed by a reasonably successful television (and occasional film) career in Aotearoa and beyond. Oh, and marriage and kids and a townhouse in Freeman’s Bay...
Then came Covid. I know lots of people suffered during the lockdowns, and I honestly feel for them, but writing a novel is a solitary affair, and, for me, lockdown meant daily walks on empty streets and no excuses not to write a novel. I’d had an idea bubbling away, so I thought, f*** it, I’ll just start writing and see where it takes me.
The idea for what became The Call was based on a long lunch that my friend (and screenwriting partner), Rachel Lang and I had some years ago with three women detectives. One detective mentioned the remarkable relationship she had with the partner of a gang member. This gang girlfriend would ring the detective late at night and give tip-offs about illegal gang activities whenever she and her fella had had an argument, and especially after he’d given her the “bash”. With typical gallows humour, the detective said the calls were so annoying sometimes she felt like giving her the bash herself. It was brutal but honest.
She became the inspiration for my fictional detective and the late-night calls the starting point for The Call. I really had no idea what I was doing, just a situation and two characters in search of a plot, but the story kept evolving. As it did, stuff from my life wormed its way in. My family and I had lived a few years in a solar-powered house out of Waiuku, which morphed into the fictional town of Waitutū. I spent time in Adelaide with my sick Mum; my protagonist goes home to care for hers. It was thrilling to get up every morning and pick up where I had left off and have no idea what was going to happen next. Don’t get me wrong, I love the story room on a TV series, but it’s loud and full of competing egos, financial constraints, impossible deadlines, and dreaded network notes. This was just me, myself and I. Bliss.