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Sydney Morning Herald
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
I lie and steal for a living, but what I did to my family shocked me
I stole from my family to write my debut novel, I Want Everything, or at least I thought I did. I told the dim myths of my relatives in broad strokes, their terrible deeds and those done to them, though I didn't probe for the particulars. This was not to protect the memories of ghosts I'd never met, rather I was worried real life would prove disappointing. But the truth was much stranger than I could have anticipated. It turned out I was not a thief but a liar. I Want Everything is about a literary parasite, a feckless writer who attaches himself to an ailing cult author, Brenda Shales, who reveals the secrets of how her sensational novels came to be. As one does in fiction, I grafted my family's stories onto Brenda and the characters in her orbit, hoping some of them would take, a way to better inhabit a time I knew little about, the political now personal. A few years ago, when I'd just begun the novel, my wife and I visited my paternal grandfather, Vincent, at his hospital bed. He was well over 90, and his heart was slowly giving out, though he was sharp enough to complete The Age crossword every day. He was sweet with my wife, talked with alacrity about his boyhood in St Kilda, an unruly place back then, his father's imprisonment at the Tatura prison camps during World War II, a story I'd never heard. Like many Italian immigrants, my great-grandfather was suspected as a fascist sympathiser, though he'd already naturalised as a White Australian, renouncing his motherland along with my chances of ever obtaining a European Union passport. As he talked about those war years in which he'd eaten city pigeons and kelp washed up on Elwood beach, I felt the sick inkling familiar to every writer, when a story begins to present itself. My grandfather died not long after our visit, cremated in a coffin draped in the St Kilda flag. Alongside the usual sadness and regret, my writer's self rubbed its hairy paws in anticipation, itching to draft my version of my relative's imprisonment. More than 15,000 people were held captive at the Tatura camps, one of whom was a stand-in for my ancestor. In my novel, I created a communist who'd fled Italy when Mussolini's Blackshirts swept to power. He braved the harsh camp conditions before I shaved his head and sent him home, to become a symbol of Australia's suspicion of difference. I had no idea how much he resembled Pasquale, my great-grandfather, nor did I much care. My maternal grandfather, Frank, died on the toilet, long before I was born. My mother and aunts had always described him as a chain-smoking workaholic, and part of B.A. Santamaria's 'Movement', a secretive group of crypto-fascist, Catholic activists who rooted out communism in Melbourne's body politic. I always remembered a story my mother had told me, of waking in the middle of the night as a young girl to find her parents in the kitchen, her mother holding a bag of frozen peas to her father's head, his shirt sheeted in blood from a gash on his forehead. She didn't need to ask who had done it, and neither did I. In my novel, I hung Frank out to dry. I made him Brenda's father, a valiant defender of Christendom, vigilant against reds under the bed and in the submarine that spirited away poor Harold Holt from the choppy waters off Cheviot Beach. So far, so novelistic. Left versus right. Mum v Dad. The Centre and the Periphery. Once the novel was written, and my book deal was signed, it was time to perform my due diligence. Find out precisely who these men were, and what further biographical nuggets I might extract. But once I started digging into my family's backstory, I was dismayed to discover I knew next to nothing at all. I emailed museums and local historians about the Victorian internment camps in Tatura, Murchison and Rushworth. The researchers checked the files and archives, but could find no record of a Pasquale Amerena at any of the camps. I surmised my grandfather had been losing the plot; maybe the story was a fantasy, or stolen from someone else. I asked my wife what she remembered from that afternoon at the hospital. She clearly recalled him talking about his childhood in St Kilda, but nothing about prison camps, nor a disappearing father. When quizzed, my own father hadn't the foggiest what I was talking about. Loading Somehow I'd made the whole thing up, attached a traumatic backstory to a man I'd never met, replete with fantastic details (kelp!). But at least I had my Catholic fascist. Or did I? My mother vigorously disputed that characterisation of her father, a kind man by all accounts. Later, my aunt confirmed he'd been staunchly anti-union, but was the furthest thing from a thug. Needless to say, the incident with the bloodied shirt was an utter fiction I'd convinced myself was real. I'd forced my family into a history that wasn't theirs, conflating them with something I'd read about camps, communists and Catholics, attaching strangers' experiences onto the names of relatives so abstracted from my life they may as well have been characters in a novel. Perhaps we're all inclined to make heroes and villains of people we've never met, especially if they share our names. I don't usually write non-fiction because I have trouble sticking to the facts. I'm an infamous exaggerator, and seldom let reality stand in the way of a good story. Some men are born liars and some have lying thrust upon them. Lying I'm fine with, it's what I do for a living. But in the future, it would be nice to know when exactly I'm doing it, especially to myself.
The Age
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
I lie and steal for a living, but what I did to my family shocked me
I stole from my family to write my debut novel, I Want Everything, or at least I thought I did. I told the dim myths of my relatives in broad strokes, their terrible deeds and those done to them, though I didn't probe for the particulars. This was not to protect the memories of ghosts I'd never met, rather I was worried real life would prove disappointing. But the truth was much stranger than I could have anticipated. It turned out I was not a thief but a liar. I Want Everything is about a literary parasite, a feckless writer who attaches himself to an ailing cult author, Brenda Shales, who reveals the secrets of how her sensational novels came to be. As one does in fiction, I grafted my family's stories onto Brenda and the characters in her orbit, hoping some of them would take, a way to better inhabit a time I knew little about, the political now personal. A few years ago, when I'd just begun the novel, my wife and I visited my paternal grandfather, Vincent, at his hospital bed. He was well over 90, and his heart was slowly giving out, though he was sharp enough to complete The Age crossword every day. He was sweet with my wife, talked with alacrity about his boyhood in St Kilda, an unruly place back then, his father's imprisonment at the Tatura prison camps during World War II, a story I'd never heard. Like many Italian immigrants, my great-grandfather was suspected as a fascist sympathiser, though he'd already naturalised as a White Australian, renouncing his motherland along with my chances of ever obtaining a European Union passport. As he talked about those war years in which he'd eaten city pigeons and kelp washed up on Elwood beach, I felt the sick inkling familiar to every writer, when a story begins to present itself. My grandfather died not long after our visit, cremated in a coffin draped in the St Kilda flag. Alongside the usual sadness and regret, my writer's self rubbed its hairy paws in anticipation, itching to draft my version of my relative's imprisonment. More than 15,000 people were held captive at the Tatura camps, one of whom was a stand-in for my ancestor. In my novel, I created a communist who'd fled Italy when Mussolini's Blackshirts swept to power. He braved the harsh camp conditions before I shaved his head and sent him home, to become a symbol of Australia's suspicion of difference. I had no idea how much he resembled Pasquale, my great-grandfather, nor did I much care. My maternal grandfather, Frank, died on the toilet, long before I was born. My mother and aunts had always described him as a chain-smoking workaholic, and part of B.A. Santamaria's 'Movement', a secretive group of crypto-fascist, Catholic activists who rooted out communism in Melbourne's body politic. I always remembered a story my mother had told me, of waking in the middle of the night as a young girl to find her parents in the kitchen, her mother holding a bag of frozen peas to her father's head, his shirt sheeted in blood from a gash on his forehead. She didn't need to ask who had done it, and neither did I. In my novel, I hung Frank out to dry. I made him Brenda's father, a valiant defender of Christendom, vigilant against reds under the bed and in the submarine that spirited away poor Harold Holt from the choppy waters off Cheviot Beach. So far, so novelistic. Left versus right. Mum v Dad. The Centre and the Periphery. Once the novel was written, and my book deal was signed, it was time to perform my due diligence. Find out precisely who these men were, and what further biographical nuggets I might extract. But once I started digging into my family's backstory, I was dismayed to discover I knew next to nothing at all. I emailed museums and local historians about the Victorian internment camps in Tatura, Murchison and Rushworth. The researchers checked the files and archives, but could find no record of a Pasquale Amerena at any of the camps. I surmised my grandfather had been losing the plot; maybe the story was a fantasy, or stolen from someone else. I asked my wife what she remembered from that afternoon at the hospital. She clearly recalled him talking about his childhood in St Kilda, but nothing about prison camps, nor a disappearing father. When quizzed, my own father hadn't the foggiest what I was talking about. Loading Somehow I'd made the whole thing up, attached a traumatic backstory to a man I'd never met, replete with fantastic details (kelp!). But at least I had my Catholic fascist. Or did I? My mother vigorously disputed that characterisation of her father, a kind man by all accounts. Later, my aunt confirmed he'd been staunchly anti-union, but was the furthest thing from a thug. Needless to say, the incident with the bloodied shirt was an utter fiction I'd convinced myself was real. I'd forced my family into a history that wasn't theirs, conflating them with something I'd read about camps, communists and Catholics, attaching strangers' experiences onto the names of relatives so abstracted from my life they may as well have been characters in a novel. Perhaps we're all inclined to make heroes and villains of people we've never met, especially if they share our names. I don't usually write non-fiction because I have trouble sticking to the facts. I'm an infamous exaggerator, and seldom let reality stand in the way of a good story. Some men are born liars and some have lying thrust upon them. Lying I'm fine with, it's what I do for a living. But in the future, it would be nice to know when exactly I'm doing it, especially to myself.
Irish Examiner
25-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
Book review: A forensic examination of the gutter press's race to the bottom
Citizen Kane (1941) is often described as the most influential movie ever made. The main character, Charles Foster Kane, is loosely based on American media mogul, William Randolph Hearst, who developed the largest newspaper chain and media company in the United States, Hearst Communications. Hearst began his career in 1887, aged 24, taking over the San Francisco Examiner from his father, George, who struggled to make it profitable. By 1890, the paper's circulation had tripled. 'The young Hearst demonstrated an extraordinary insight concerning journalism of the future,' writes English journalist, author, and academic, Terry Kirby, in The Newsmongers: A History of Tabloid Journalism. The book is a thoroughly researched, well-crafted history of tabloid journalism from the 16th century right through to the clickbait journalism of today. The real star of Kirby's book, though, is Alfred Harmsworth who became a newspaper man in 1894, when he bought the near bankrupt London Evening News. Within a year, it was the world's biggest selling evening newspaper. Harmsworth dominated the newspaper business in early 20th century Britain — he founded the Daily Mirror in 1903 and bought The Times in 1908. He died as Lord Northcliffe, aged 57, in August 1922. His media empire was passed onto his younger brother, Harold, then known as Lord Rothermere. During the inter-war years, his papers championed Mussolini and Hitler. Closer to home, Rothermere backed the British Union of Fascists, and their thuggish street gang associates, the Blackshirts. In the summer of 1939, just before Nazi Germany invaded Poland, Rothermere wrote a letter to Hitler praising his 'superhuman work'. An omen? The British tabloid press in the post-war period was dominated by outsiders. Robert Maxwell rose from poverty in Czechoslovakia, to become an academic publishing magnate, and a UK Labour Party MP. A crude egomaniac, Maxwell acquired the Daily Mirror in 1984 but his life ended in disgrace. The body of the millionaire publisher was found in early November 1991 off the coast of Tenerife. Maxwell was said to have fallen off the back of the yacht, Lady Ghislaine. He named it after his favourite daughter, who later became a criminal accomplice to serial sex offender, Jeffrey Epstein. Prior to his death, Robert Maxwell had defaulted on $2bn worth of loans and subsequently raided millions of pounds from his company's retirement fund, even stealing from his own staff's pensions and shares in Britain's Mirror Group. Robert Maxwell acquired the Daily Mirror in 1984 but his life ended in disgrace. File photo Rupert Murdoch, by contrast, was — and still is — a shrewd operator. He arrived in Britain, in late October 1968, aged 37. He was then already owner of a growing media empire in Australia that was started by his father. When Keith Murdoch became editor of the Melbourne Herald in January 1921, Lord Northcliffe (who was a good friend) sent him advice on how to make a newspaper profitable. Later that year, Northcliffe sent Murdoch £5,000 (£300,000 in today's money) to help him purchase the Sydney Morning Herald. By the mid-1980s, Murdoch owned The Sun, The Times, The Sunday Times and the News of the World. That decade, as market competition increased, the British tabloid press gradually evolved into the gutter press. Kirby examines this topic with forensic analysis. The emergence of HIV/Aids during the early 1980s, which devastated gay communities across the world, prompted little sympathy from the British tabloids. Typically, they sneered and mocked homosexuality. When EastEnders broadcasted the first ever gay kiss in a British soap in 1989, The Sun published a front-page story titled 'Eastbenders'. The article was written by Piers Morgan, then a young reporter for the paper, who wrote a regular column, The Poofs of Pop, where he speculated on whether various male pop stars were gay. There were numerous complaints made to Britain's Press Council over these stories, which the Sun's then-editor, Kelvin MacKenzie rejected. But Rupert Murdoch 'seemed unconcerned', as Kirby puts it. Rupert Murdoch 'seemed unconcerned' by Piers Morgan's regular column in The Sun, The Poofs of Pop, where he speculated on whether various male pop stars were gay. File photo: Arthur Edwards/PA/News International (NI Group Ltd) By July 2011, however, Murdoch had much to be concerned about. In fact, he voluntarily closed down his paper, the News of the World — after evidence emerged that a private investigator working there, Glenn Mulcaire, had hacked the phone of murdered schoolgirl, Milly Fowler. Journalists at the paper regularly used Mulcaire as a reliable source for stories they printed. The scandal led to then-British prime minister, David Cameron, to launch the Leveson inquiry, which began that year. It was supposed to bring back credibility and accountability to a press culture that was poisoned by years of criminal and unethical behaviour. In practice, after Leveson, the British media grew even more aggressive. In April 2015, Katie Hopkins published an article in The Sun claiming that all migrants coming to Britain by boat are 'cockroaches'. The new press watchdog, ipso, set up after Leveson, accepted the paper's defence that as an opinion piece, it was fair game. In November 2016, the Daily Mail ran a headline describing 'Enemies of the People'. The story, written by the paper's political editor, James Slack, claimed several High Court judges were risking a constitutional crisis. Actually, the judges were merely pointing out that Brexit needed to be passed in the House of Commons to become legally binding. Slack later went to work as a press officer for British prime minister, Theresa May. It's a route many prominent members of the British press have made. Take Andy Coulson, for instance. He was editor of the News of the World from 2003 to 2007. He stepped down after being given the director of communications job for the Conservative Party, staying in that role until January 2011. In July 2014, Coulson was jailed for 18 months for plotting to hack phones while he was editor of the News of the World. In October 2013, evidence emerged in London's Old Bailey that Coulson, while working at the News of the World, had a secret six-year affair with a fellow editor, Rebekah Brooks, while they both plotted to hack phones at the paper. Between 2003 and 2009, Brooks was editor of The Sun. Kirby cites a text message Brooks sent to David Cameron (then leader of the opposition) on October 7, 2009, on the eve of his Tory conference speech. 'I am so rooting for you tomorrow not just as a proud friend but because professionally we're definitely in this together! Speech of your life? Yes he Cam,' wrote Brooks. 'That last phrase was the Sun's headline the day after the speech,' Kirby explains. He argues convincingly that the line between the third and fourth estate has gradually eroded in Britain over the last few decades — where a motley crew of hacks, editors, press barons, and members of parliament, including several prime ministers, have all become a little too chummy for comfort. Kirby gives the last word to Britain's Prince Harry, the duke of Sussex. Last December, he was awarded £146,000 following a successful legal fight against The Mirror's publisher at the High Court in London, who ruled that he had been the victim of information gathering, including phone-hacking. 'Our country is judged globally by the state of our press and our government — both of which I believe are at rock bottom,' the duke of Sussex told the court in a witness statement that day. 'Democracy fails when your press fails to scrutinise and hold the government accountable, and instead choose to get into bed with them so they can ensure the status quo.' A British royal giving a lecture about democratic values? It's a bit rich. But he certainly has a point.
New York Times
19-02-2025
- Sport
- New York Times
Nebraska football's roster squeeze is creating tough decisions for players and coaches
LINCOLN, Neb. — The first time Conor Connealy tore the ACL in his right knee, it nearly robbed him of the opportunity to play college football. The second time, oddly, his injury might extend his career at Nebraska and buy him time to earn a spot on a roster cut dramatically in size. Parts of his story are not unique to the Huskers. Players and coaches nationally face difficult choices in 2025 due to the fallout from the NCAA v. House settlement. Advertisement Connealy didn't expect to be part of a sweeping change in college sports. It just swallowed him up, like so much else that has long existed without fanfare. Nebraska football posters hung from the red- and white-painted walls in Connealy's childhood bedroom. A helmet worn at Nebraska by his father, two-time All-Big Eight defensive lineman Terry Connealy, sat on Conor's nightstand. 'I was raised by Blackshirts,' he said. 'I felt like I was raised in the program, with their culture and their different values. It's always been a part of me. And something bigger than me.' In his first memory of Nebraska football, Conor sat on his dad's shoulders at age 6 or 7 as they walked into Memorial Stadium. 'Seeing the field, seeing the scoreboard,' he said, 'I just remember being able to look down at all the fans and know how much everybody loved Nebraska.' Before the school hired Matt Rhule as its coach in December 2022, Connealy had begun to accept that his football career might be over. Two months earlier, as a two-way lineman at Mount Michael High in Elkhorn, Neb., he suffered that first knee injury early in his senior season. Connealy initially had heard from Nebraska in a text from Kenny Wilhite, the director of high school relations, on Thanksgiving Day 2021. But contact with the Nebraska staff waned after Connealy got hurt. Amid the upheaval in Lincoln, the Huskers transitioned from Scott Frost to interim coach Mickey Joseph in the fall of 2022. Staffers anticipated widespread change at the end of the season. And it came. As Connealy listened to Rhule's introductory news conference, he heard that the former Carolina Panthers coach wanted to reinforce the qualities of a developmental program at Nebraska. Connealy heard that Rhule wanted to build players into contributors by their third, fourth and fifth seasons. Advertisement Rhule's words reignited a fire, reminding Connealy of stories he had heard from his dad. Terry Connealy played eight-man high school football in Hyannis, Neb., and captained the defense for a national championship team with the Huskers as a fifth-year senior in 1994. Conor Connealy, still wanting to play, made plans to attend Nebraska as a student only. In the spring of Connealy's senior year at Mount Michael, Nebraska assistant Ed Foley reached out to ask for film that showed his mobility before he got hurt. He gathered a few clips. The Huskers extended a walk-on offer. He accepted on the spot. 'I was excited to help,' Connealy said. 'I was excited to play scout team. I was excited to learn from older guys.' Connealy rehabbed from the high school injury. He settled at defensive line like his dad. He gained 20 pounds in each of his first two seasons without playing in a game, packing 265 pounds on his 6-foot-4 frame. He felt like a contributor to the family business. Almost immediately after Nebraska closed the regular season last year on Black Friday, Connealy met with then-defensive line coach Terrance Knighton. If the roster cuts to come in 2025 were in place now, Knighton told him, Connealy wouldn't have a spot on the 105-man roster. He would not be allowed to stay on the team. Rhule and his staff had those conversations with many players. 'Some guys left as walk-ons here and got scholarships somewhere else,' Rhule said, 'which is great. But some guys have said, 'Coach, I'm staying here until you kick me off. I'm a Husker.'' Roster limits will be rolled into the House settlement, a resolution to the $2.8 billion lawsuit that will bring revenue sharing to college sports, pending approval in April. With a 150-player roster that ranked as one of the largest in college football last season, Nebraska — and every other program — must get to 105 by the start of play in 2025. Advertisement Thirty Huskers entered the transfer portal in December and January. But after Nebraska signed 20 recruits and 16 transfers, it still must trim more than 25 from its roster. Connealy isn't leaving on his own. 'My gut instinct,' he said, 'was, 'OK, let's prove them wrong. I want to be a Cornhusker.' I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I didn't give it my best shot.' He made plans to double down on his training and get in the best shape of his life. Connealy listened to his dad, who told him to keep working when no one was watching. Then, on Dec. 4, in a pass-rush drill as Nebraska began bowl game prep work, Connealy felt his right knee buckle. Trainers checked him out. He finished the workout, even running a few sprints. It felt OK, he said. The next day, an MRI showed a tear to the same ACL he had injured more than two years prior. He attended the Pinstripe Bowl and watched in sweats as Nebraska won its first postseason game since 2015. Connealy underwent surgery on Jan. 17. The prognosis for a return from the second ACL injury is 12 to 15 months. Connealy's end goal has not changed. He wants to play for Nebraska. 'I'm viewing this as a blessing and an opportunity to grow,' he said. Rhule said this month that he expects Nebraska could replace an injured player on the 105 in August. Presumably, Connealy and others who are out for the season could remain connected to the Huskers while working to return from injury, although the extent of their permitted involvement in team activities is unknown. Clarity from the NCAA on roster management could come after the April ruling on the House settlement. 'Hurting my knee may save me a spot at the table,' Connealy said, 'just because there's so much uncertainty as to what the rules are. I don't think anyone knows. It leaves us in a tough spot.' Connealy told Rhule in December that he's 'fully committed' to making it back and earning a spot. The coach expected nothing less from him. 'That's hard for me,' Rhule said of the roster crunch. 'We'll compete it out all the way to the end and see how the numbers play out.' He said the Huskers might take 115 players into preseason practice at the end of July. Advertisement By Aug. 28, when Nebraska opens against Cincinnati at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, Rhule plans to identify a top 57 that resembles an active NFL roster. Then, among the remaining 48 spots, all but 10 would fit like a second NFL-style unit. The last 10? Culture fits. A former walk-on linebacker at Penn State, Rhule wants players, regardless of their position, who are flexible at practice and bring too much value to cut. He's looking for players who are 'raising the level of everything around us.' Connealy has heard the message. 'As a culture guy, I know what Nebraska football is supposed to be like,' he said. 'Right now, my plan is to bust my ass and get my knee healed up better than it was before. It gives me a great chance to change my body and get into great shape, get a lot stronger and just watch a lot of film.' Before the latest setback, Connealy said he felt pointed in the right direction to play and help Nebraska win games. 'I see no reason why that won't continue,' he said. If ever the day comes when he's left off the 105 at Nebraska while healthy, Connealy said he doesn't know if he would enter the portal or simply choose to stay in Lincoln and finish school. 'That's a tough question,' he said. 'It would depend on a lot of factors. I'm not too interested in anywhere else. I do love it here. It's my home. But I also love playing football.' (Top photo of Conor Connealy courtesy of Nebraska Athletics)
