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The novel did not begin with a thesis about reality television or consumerism. It began with a single, violent image that arrived before Rawle was fully awake, on the first morning of the school summer holidays in 2023.
It was the first day of the holidays. I woke up with this image in my head, which was the first scene of the novel: two beautiful women, walking around the house and finding the bodies of other beautiful women strewn around like litter. I wrote that scene and then I wrote the rest of it in this mad rush.
The show’s format had lodged in her mind during the pandemic lockdowns, when she watched Love Island with housemates. What kept snagging her attention was not the romantic pairings but the different arenas the show assigned to men and women.
While the girls are thinking ‘who’s the prettiest in the house?’, the boys are fighting in the desert.
That asymmetry became one of the structural premises of the compound’s game, where the rewards and risks land differently depending on who you are.
The character of Tom, the book’s most magnetically threatening male contestant, came from a question Rawle was asking herself about real life rather than fiction. She had watched young men gravitating toward figures like Andrew Tate and wanted to understand the pull rather than simply condemn it.
Tom was a little bit of a response to the Andrew Tate adoration and ideation that goes on. I was thinking, ‘Why are young men drawn to people like this?’ And so, trying to be a little bit more objective and not be so much mired in my own sort of biases. So that was fun.
Rawle’s years teaching secondary school had shown her how a single label can calcify around a person for decades. Her post-college life added a second discomfort: a salary arrived and immediately narrowed into the question of what to buy next. That flatness is the book’s other engine, distilled into two sentences.
I wrote it to explore consumerism. Everything is transactional.
Rawle wrote the entire first draft during the six-week school summer break. The speed was possible partly because she never planned ahead, which meant the story kept surprising her the way a watched show surprises a viewer.
One of the funnest things about writing this was that I never ever knew what was going to happen next. Every time I was sitting down, I felt as much that I was sort of viewing my favorite TV show as I was writing it. I kind of was going, ‘Oh, who’s leaving tonight?’ [paraphrased from audio]
When asked about the research behind the compound’s reality-show mechanics, Rawle described a process that looked nothing like traditional research. The lockdowns had given her hundreds of hours of material, absorbed in the gossipy, armchair-psychoanalysis spirit she wanted the book to carry.
My meticulous research was binge-watching ‘Love Island’ over lockdown. That was it.
Returning to the manuscript in autumn, after the heat of the first draft had cooled, was a different kind of work. The mood that had propelled the writing was simply gone.
The most challenging part, I think, was going back into the edits because I wrote it in a pretty short space of time, about six weeks over the summer holidays. When I returned to editing in the kind of autumn and winter months, it definitely felt very different. I wasn’t in the same headspace. [paraphrased from audio]
The male characters were where revision did its most visible work. Lily’s voice and trajectory were largely stable from the first draft, but the boys required more deliberate layering. Andrew, in particular, had a history she could not narrate directly but wanted readers to sense through his behavior.
Something that did kind of change throughout the drafts was kind of adding more layers to some of the characters, particularly the boys. I felt that Andrew had a kind of rich backstory that I couldn’t tell but that I wanted it to become clear through some of his more questionable actions. [paraphrased from audio]
Three books sat behind the writing as touchstones. Two were recent reads; the third, a mid-century political fable, shaped how she thought about greed as an almost gravitational force rather than a personal failing.
When I wrote The Compound, I had recently read Penance by Eliza Clarke and The Guest by Emma Cline; I felt that both did an incredible job of creating a delicious sense of unease, as well as biting social commentary. In a broader sense, Animal Farm by George Orwell was in my mind as I was finding my feet with The Compound. The seemingly inevitable, corrosive force of greed that overshadows the animals’ best intentions is as tragic as it is pressingly relevant.
Rawle designed Lily, the book’s narrator, as a trap for the reader’s assumptions. Lily appears to fit the mold of the “dumb blonde” contestant, and the first-person narration was chosen precisely so readers would form that judgment and then have to reckon with it from inside her perspective.
With the main character, Lily, I wanted to challenge the idea of the ‘dumb blonde’ who often draws judgment on these shows. I wanted the reader to live in her head and prize her for what she was worth, and sit with their own assumptions.
The compound’s game, in which contestants degrade themselves for arbitrary prizes, was not designed to feel like satire of something exotic. Rawle mapped it directly onto the structure of ordinary young adult aspiration.
The three driving forces of the reality TV show were, the driving forces of young adult life. Which is, you have to find a partner, you have to get a house, and then you have to get nice things. That’s what it means to be a successful adult. I wanted to turn that up to the extreme.
The fun of the book, Rawle argues, is part of the argument. Enjoying the spectacle puts the reader in the same position as the unseen audience inside the story, which is exactly the discomfort she wanted to leave behind.
I hope that as the reader you have a fun time and maybe sort of question your role within this industry and within this story. [paraphrased from audio]
Asked to name what the book’s darkness is really a symptom of, Rawle reached past reality television entirely. Lord of the Flies, she said in an NPR interview, was in her head throughout, and it pointed toward a diagnosis larger than any single format.
The Lord of the Flies was definitely in my head when I was writing it and that, you know, even though this is a sort of fun-in-the-sun story, the kind of sinister tone of the book, to me, isn’t a symptom of a reality television show, more so a symptom of a sort of more naked look at late-stage capitalism.
The compound, in that reading, is not a warning about what television could become. It is a clearer view of what is already there.