When I got my VCE results almost one hundred years ago (in 2000), I had two goals: to be imminently drunk, and to do something that would become a “real job”. As the eldest child of university graduates and impressive overachievers, there was no question in my mind of doing anything silly like “something I loved” or “following my dream”.

I wanted to be a writer. Of course I did; I had been writing about my feelings since I was little, and English was the only subject that gave me anything resembling academic pleasure. But writing was, as far as I knew, a pretend job. A good way to spend every month scrounging for coins between couch cushions to put food on the table.