The notebook that keeps my interviews honest

I keep a notebook of questions before every interview, but it is never meant to become a script. It is a working map of what I want to understand, what I need to verify, and where a person’s story may open beyond the first answer. The notebook keeps me from arriving with three polished questions and leaving with a feature that sounds like everyone else. It reminds me that curiosity is active: I listen for the tension in a phrase, notice what changes in a voice, and decide which detail deserves another breath.

Journalism taught me that preparation and spontaneity are partners. The notes give my attention a structure, while the conversation decides what happens next. I can glance down, cross out a question that has already been answered, or add a line inspired by something unexpected. That freedom is why the habit matters. In an age of instant quotes and rapid reactions, I want each conversation to feel considered without feeling controlled. The notebook is less a list than a promise to arrive with discipline and leave with a genuine story.

Preparation is part of the performance

I use a plain notebook with no secret filing system. Some pages carry interview research, while others contain only a name, a date and three reminders. Before a conversation, I mark an opening route, the evidence I need, a question about consequence and one place where the guest may disagree with me. On the train through Sydney or during a tram journey in Melbourne, I can turn a blank page into a clear sequence without turning myself into a reciter of notes. The physical act of writing slows me down enough to see the shape of the story.

Preparation does more than sharpen the interview. It gives the producer or editor a visible sense of my direction and gives me confidence to remain responsive rather than performative. Details of my broadcasting, books, advocacy and speaking work are collected on my official website, but the notebook remains deliberately private. Its value lies in the thinking, not in displaying how thorough I have been. When I walk into a studio or join a video call, I want calm energy, not the pressure to empty a page in order to prove I prepared.

The first page usually holds ten to fifteen questions, though the final list is shorter. I group them loosely: context, turning point, evidence, human impact and the question still unresolved. I circle the question I would ask if I had only one, and I remove any question that sounds like a test with a preferred answer. Then I mark two or three follow-ups. Some are written in fragments, such as “the first week?” or “what did she notice first?” Others are complete because precision matters. In Brisbane before a live broadcast, that last-minute pruning can be the difference between an interview that feels expansive and one that feels like a checklist.

Turning curiosity into a sharper conversation

A list protects me from intellectual laziness. If I enter with no questions, I am more likely to accept the easiest version of events, fill pauses with commentary or mistake confidence for completeness. Prepared questions create options, and options let me follow the guest rather than the page. The central test is simple: will the answer reveal a choice, a consequence or a change in understanding? If it will, the question is doing useful work even when it is plain.

That approach suits the Australian media market, where audiences meet long-form journalism through the ABC and programmes such as Four Corners, alongside commercial breakfast radio, prime-time television and a busy podcast sector. Broadcasters here often prize a direct answer, but directness works best when it is earned through attention. The same attention shapes my broader work through the Kiflimaly project, where clear questions help ideas travel beyond the room in which they began. The wording changes the depth of the exchange, as this comparison shows.

A question is a tool, not a trap

The most revealing question is rarely the cleverest one. I want language that opens a door and leaves the guest free to decide how far to walk through it. “What happened next?” may be more valuable than a complicated compound question because it keeps the timeline alive. “What did you believe at the time?” distinguishes a person’s earlier judgement from hindsight. “Who else was in the room?” can bring an entire social context into focus. These questions work because they seek understanding rather than a rehearsed slogan.

Recording and privacy deserve attention in Australia. The federal Privacy Act 1988 governs the handling of personal information by many organisations, while the law on recording private conversations varies by state and territory. NSW and Queensland, for example, generally allow a participant to record a conversation they are party to, though organisational policy and the circumstances can impose extra restrictions. Before recording an interview, I check the relevant consent requirements, the intended use of the material and any health or safety concerns. Defamation is also governed at state and territory level, so the distinction between reported fact and fair comment may need careful editorial handling.

A notebook must record curiosity without becoming careless. In conversations about women’s health, trauma or identity, I do not use a list to bypass consent or force disclosure. I note the words a person uses for their body, their pain and their recovery, then respect those words when I write. I also know when to drop a line altogether. Silence can be an invitation; it can also be a boundary. The best interviewers build enough trust for the answer to be honest without making honesty a performance.

Listening for the answer beneath the answer

Listening is the half of interviewing that cannot be prepared on paper. I watch for the moment a guest pauses before a familiar answer, shifts from general language to a specific memory, or becomes more energetic around a detail others overlook. I paraphrase when I need to confirm that I have understood, then leave a beat before asking the next question. That beat can feel long on a timed broadcast, but it often produces the line that makes the interview memorable.

Public speaking and interviewing bring out a particular pressure: the possibility that someone will object, interrupt or attack. I have written about handling online trolls because protecting my voice starts before I answer. A composed reply, a deliberate pause and a refusal to mirror someone else’s hostility are skills worth practising, not signs of weakness. The notebook helps there too. I write down the point I want to make and the boundary I want to keep, so a loud comment cannot dictate the whole exchange.

The habit fits the ordinary Australian rhythm in which I live and work. The notebook travels in a handbag between a station café and a home office, opens beside a flat white, and sometimes captures a phrase on the back of a Woolworths receipt. I keep a separate page for observations that no planned question produced. Looking back, those fragments are often the start of the strongest pieces: a revealing word, an unexpected connection, or the instant when a polished speaker admitted what the job had cost them.

Carrying the habit into public life

The same muscle that turns a good answer into a clear story helps on a stage. Before a keynote or hosting engagement, I write the questions I want the audience to be holding by the end: What has this person learned that they can use? What choice lies beneath the advice? What deserves more attention? I prepare stories and key messages, but I leave space for the room to change their emphasis. Confidence comes from knowing the through-line, not from delivering a flawless performance.

Speaking can still be frightening, especially when a person assumes their voice does not yet belong in the room. My guide to finding your public voice begins with that reality. A notebook can hold the first nervous sentence, the personal example that feels too exposing and the point that needs three attempts to articulate. Revision there is not defeat; it is the visible work of finding language worthy of the message. The same process applies whether I am hosting an event in Sydney, speaking in Melbourne or working with women’s wellbeing and leadership through This Girl Is On Fire.

Leaders often believe confidence means having every answer before they enter a conversation. I have learned that resilience is the capacity to stay present when certainty disappears. Leadership becomes more generous when a person can ask a question they do not already know how to answer. The notebook gives me questions that are specific enough to be useful and open enough to reveal an unforeseen response. By the end of an interview, the page may look untidy, but my attention is sharper for having listened closely. That is the standard I carry into every room: disciplined preparation, generous attention and the willingness to be changed by what someone says next.