Up until a few years ago, I thought I must be stupid. I'd grown up with an alcoholic parent in a depressed suburb, done poorly at high school, couldn't get into a university, spent a lot of time in meaningless, poorly paid jobs--I must have worked for every major fast food chain. My solace in all this, what I escaped into, were books. I read voraciously, and when I ran out of books, I wrote my own. Starting very early and continuing right through my life, I made up stories--desperately embarrassing wish-fulfillment fantasies mostly--but stories where life was interesting and exotic and textured. I dreamed of being a writer, of spending my days with my nose in a book. By about the age of twenty, however, I came to understand that this wasn't an appropriate aspiration to have. If I'd had a dollar for every person who had said, "yes, but what do you really want to do," I could have doubled my pitiful salary.

When I managed to pass a public service exam, I was over the moon. Just imagine, not having to wear a uniform and a hair net! I thought my first office job was a slice of heaven; everything was so clean and everyone was so relaxed. It didn't take me long to get bored. In my first week on the job I was actually told to slow down as I was making everybody else look bad. I applied for every promotion advertised, with no success at all. They wanted people with degrees; not typists with delusions of grandeur. So I tried to be happy correcting the spelling and grammar mistakes my boss made (he who earned four times as much as me), and used my love of writing to help out (unacknowledged) on large reports and published projects. It wasn't fulfilling by any stretch of the imagination, but I was stupid, remember? I could hardly expect more.

It was about this time I attended the Springboard program. That workbook changed my life! Nobody had ever asked me the questions that the workbook asked me: what are your strengths, your interests, your passions, where do you want to be in five years' time? It all became so clear to me: what I wanted to do was write. That was all I'd ever wanted to do, but I'd let fear of ridicule stop me. Now I'd decided that writing was going to be plan A, the next step became obvious. I'd always known that I'd have to get a degree if I wanted to get anywhere, and I had listlessly considered qualifying for a business course or an education course. But now, I couldn't wait to get into a university--to study English literature.

Small problem: I had to go back to high school.

In the end, it proved quite painless. I found a school which ran external high school certificates for adults and enrolled part-time while I worked my butt off to clear all my debts. I wanted to go to university full-time, and I couldn't do that with credit card bills and car loans to honour. It suddenly seemed so important to me that I work towards plan A, instead of spending all my energy securing plan B. A year later I found myself enrolling in an Arts degree at University of Queensland, indulging my passion. It was a huge risk, but it has paid off. Big time.

End of semester one, my first results arrived in the mail. Guess what? I wasn't stupid, I was never stupid, in fact, I was smart. I topped three of my four subjects, a pattern which continued throughout my degree, from which I eventually graduated with first class Honours in English literature, and a University Medal. But that wasn't the best thing that happened to me. The best thing that happened was that I had time to write and write and write, and my writing got better and better and better. During my second year at uni, I met a writer whose agent was considered one of the best in the country. I am not a forward person, I'm pretty much a scaredy cat. Even so, it was too good an opportunity to waste. I told him about the story I was working on, how much I loved it, how I had a sense of destiny about it. My passion must have swayed him. He took the first five chapters from me and passed them on to his agent.

This was one of the most exciting times of my life, the delicious to-and-fro dance of hope and discouragement, until the agent finally said to me, "I'm taking this to a major publisher on Monday morning, but don't hold your breath--these things take time."

On Tuesday they made an offer.

I remember that night, getting absolutely plastered with my friends: in the great Australian tradition, anybody with a major intellectual achievement should be bought many, many rounds of brain-cell destroying drinks. The next morning I had to give a presentation at uni. I opened my mouth to start talking about cultural discourses and ethnography, but, to my horror, I started to weep. I shared my news with the class, and a few of them looked misty-eyed too. Tremendously embarrassing, but all part of the fun.

The most wonderful thing that my writing has allowed me to do is to travel for research (and a bit of pleasure too). Travel was always something that other people--rich people, successful people, well-dressed people, people from great families--did. I used to hear this seventies song about a woman who woke up one day and realised that her dreams were evaporating, that she would probably never get to go to Paris. That song used to terrify me; I was afraid my life would turn out that way. But New Year's Eve 1998 found me sitting in a bathtub by candlelight in a little Paris hotel, thinking to myself, "I wrote this." I did it all myself, I didn't rely on a rich daddy or husband. It was absolutely and entirely mine. I heard that song again recently and I laughed. Paris wasn't even that great. Next year I'm going to try St Petersburg. I'm sure there's a story in there somewhere.

So where am I now? My first book, The Infernal, won two national literary awards and was sold on into the UK and Europe. My second, Grimoire, was released in July 1999. I've since changed publishers and my third book, The Resurrectionists will be published in October 2000. They've also commissioned me to start a young adult series about a psychic detective, and the first of those will be published soon. I get lots of other writing-related work teaching creative writing and literature at universities and in workshops, and I am now at the point where I am offered more work than I can accept. I do what I love for every moment of every day, and I am certain that there cannot possibly be a person on the planet more fulfilled than me. I've had my ups and downs, though--I've never met a well-adjusted writer, and some of my low points have been so low as to make me wonder if I'll ever see the light of day again. But I'm learning how to be happy. It takes time, but it's coming.

I can feel it coming.

(© Kim Wilkins 2000)