IN SEPTEMBER 2020, two months into Melbourne’s second lockdown, I was in my local park doing my allotted hour of physical activity when a pleasant feeling that wasn’t just feel-good-exercise-chemicals flowed through me. A surprising thought followed: ‘I’m really happy.’

I’d just had another weekday of the same routine: get up, eat breakfast, go to my desk, write more of the story I’m working on, knock off after six or seven hours, go for a walk, cook dinner, eat, chat, read, bed. Then the next day, start over again, same routine, same rhythm. On weekends, I’d scale things back a bit and do an hour or two of writing, go shopping for groceries and clean up around home.