PJ always starts the class with a kind of rambling lecture on her thoughts on writing and publishing books. Today she tells us: it’s hard; it takes years and years to write anything halfdecent, if you think you’ve written something great you’ll come back to it three months later and realise it’s not; there’s absolutely no money to be made, especially in Australia; it’s lonely; it’s a form of torture, really; most people won’t get published, if you do get published you’ll be utterly disappointed at what an anticlimax it is; writing talent is rare but even rarer is a talented writer who can take on feedback and actually do the work to make their writing better. But, despite all this, if we want to write, if it calls to us in the dark of night, if it’s in our very bones, then we should face down the inevitable heartbreak and do it anyway, because nothing else will ever feel as nourishing to our souls. Making art, she says, requires courage and fortitude. Oh, and exercise helps. Helps what? someone asks. Helps everything, she says gravely.

I dutifully write it all down in my new notebook: hard, lonely, no money, great suffering but possible happiness. Start running?

Sophie has been making a pained face at Justin throughout this lecture. Justin is grinning back at her. Ruby is sipping on a giant iced coffee, using one finger to slowly scroll through a clothing website on her laptop. Sophie, Ruby and Justin all think PJ is too cynical and bitter. They roll their eyes and make fun of her in the group chat we set up, while also remaining completely terrified of her in person. Obviously, we are all desperate for her approval. But I like her. I like the way she combines no-bullshit honesty with a flair for the dramatic. I like that she tells us it’s going to be terrible but we should do it anyway because it might also be wonderful.

At the end of class, I say, ‘See you on Friday,’ to Sophie, Ruby and Justin, and then brace myself, because Friday is our housewarming party, and I am expecting the three of them to give me blank looks or make excuses for why they can’t come. But they all cheerfully say, ‘See you then,’ and, once again, I am flooded with relief. I don’t remember ever being this nervous or neurotic about making friends in high school. Back then, I had a group I sat with at lunch, and I had other groups that my group was friends with, friendships that were wide and shallow and safe. Things weren’t perfect, but I knew who I was and where I fit. I am out of my depth here. I’m always on edge that I’ll be exposed as a fraud in some way.