Success in Small Bites

I swear this is relevant, keep reading! Cut and copied from Friday Digest. This is not my Image.

When I initially started writing it was because of a general curiosity of how I could record my thoughts and actions. It was all personal, journaling and storytelling. Eventually I wrote a piece, which I now can’t recall, that I was very proud of. Wow, I think this is actually pretty good! Not good as in I should go to a publisher, but a good where I thought that I could share it with someone and they may appreciate it. So, I did. I shared it with a family member, maybe two and they thought it was good. Well, good from a family member can be highly highly biased, so seeking the opinion of someone whom I was unrelated to, I perhaps shared it with a friend. That friend then said it was good. Wow, It must not be half-bad.  Once again, recruiting your friends in an excited manner to read something you wrote is also biased. 


I kept writing and writing, continuing my journal and reading. Reading is practicing writing, there are too many styles and voices to measure. I read adventure magazines, adventure books, non-fiction history and biographies. I wanted to write what I read, and by reading I was able to learn tiny bits here and there, soon incorporating those voices into my own. I think my style is a reflection of myself, I like to write with many commas, as if I were conversing with you, like this is a transcript of my thoughts. I feel very personal when I write, it is an art form after all. There is no limit to what you can or cannot do and I like the idea of that. That I could transport a reader right to where I was, or to a place that exists solely in my head, and now on a page. 


My first “big” moment in writing was when I started this blog. I started it because I wrote an essay that was published in a magazine. Published in a magazine. Woah….that was a very special moment to see what I wrote some winter afternoon now held in my hands, bound in a published magazine. It really made me think that writing could be done after all, that this method of art, expression and storytelling was possible to achieve. Achieve what? I’m not sure, at this moment, I don’t know exactly what I want my writing to do, or where I want it to take me. 


Trying to immigrate to Canada has left me in a unique predicament. Here I am living in a country where I cannot yet work, while my wife is working full time, usually more. It has left me feeling unproductive because I am not financially contributing to our funds, which is more or less our future. Working illegally is not a long-term game, the benefits of making a few bucks are far outweighed by the fact that if I were caught, I wouldn’t be able to immigrate and our whole last year of waiting, immigration documents, doctors appointments and general stress would be a total waste. So I am left with remote work, another world that is polar opposite to the hands-on or manual labor I am accustomed to. My resume must look like a dusty ‘99 windows computer. After dozens and dozens of applications, cover letters, and searching I am still without a response. It is hurtful to experience this, I put my best foot forward and there is no response in return, for several months. It sucks. A response that at least states that they received my resume, but that I did not receive an interview would be better than nothing. 


Fuck it. I’ll try writing for money. 


I signed up for UpWork as a freelance writer, with no experience but my blog. UpWork charges an outrageous fee for connecting clients and freelancers (20%), but at least it is a way to connect with potential work and to venture further into the world of occupational writing. A month into the endeavor I strike gold. A ghostwriting position I applied for responded….to me. Wow, was I ever excited. She needed a book written about gardening and spirituality, had all the content, but just needed it to be written out. “This is my opportunity!” I likely not only thought to myself, but became a mantra. 


I had my first interview and I CRUSHED it. It felt so good to be valued for something, for work, to have the slightest, most dim light at the end of the tunnel. In the following days, the client responded to me. She had a writing contest. Between me and one other candidate. Unfortunately, my copy writing is not the least bit trained, so that was an issue, but I gave it my best and was happy. In the end, I was paid $24 dollars for my essay. 


A month later, another client reached out. They needed an article written for their weekly email digest. “Woahhh” I thought, “that means people will read this?!”. Once again, a list of “ten reasons why…” is not really my forte, but I gave it my best. Luckily I like to read and recently read a few books on sleep, productivity and general well being, so I was capable of regurgitating my learned knowledge into a bulleted list. When the client asks you what you charge the first time, it is off-putting. I don't know if I shot low, but my first offer was accepted! $30 dollars in the bank. The next week, I received the email that contained my writing! They even credited my name (you can find my “10 Tips to Become a Morning Person” here). Success in small bites is so sweet. 


The latest client, reaching out within ten minutes after submitting my last piece, needed three articles written and I, as a now newly accomplished writer, was up for the job. I wrote three blog posts for a fire alarm system company in Ontario and was once again paid for my work. 


If I’ve learned anything about my situation, being unemployed, and living in a digital world it’s that perseverance, an active appearance and tons of applications can lead to little bits of success. I am happy with that because little by little, it all adds up. I have published works on my digital resume and plan to add many more in the coming months.


Success in small bites is so sweet. 


Winter Spirits

Icy water flows under the Kicking Horse Pedestrian Bridge.

The mornings have grown still, it is 8:15, the light just beginning to show and brighten the world. It looks cold, grey...lifeless. The trees are reflections of their roots having shed all of their leaves, now posing as multi-stemmed spires pointing skywards. I sit inside sipping my coffee while pondering an existence without heated housing, just the thought leads me to believe I wouldn’t have made it to 28. Although I am in the comfort of my living room bundled in warm clothes, I soon will be walking with my wife to work. The frozen morning staring at me through the double pane windows, like a spirit, taunting me. 



It is November first and will be my first winter in Canada. The surrounding mountains are already donning their winter jackets, freshly white from the last precipitation event. The time is now 8:40, departure. I suit up into long johns, pants, sweater, puffy, and an aviator hat. I am ready. The cold morning taunts me less enthusiastically now, I have prepared to enter the world. 



Refreshing, the air filling my lungs. Chilling my nostrils as I inhale deeply. The morning is quiet and still. There is no breeze, no sounds. The world seems shell shocked by the first icy morning. Yesterday's mud is now frozen with tire imprints that may not fade until spring when the northern hemisphere begins to warm once again. The puddle that we generally avoid is now the home of a miniature skating rink, surrounded by defeated fans, or, in reality, remnants of Aesculus hippocastanum (Horse Chestnut) . We’re five minutes into our stroll and I can feel the cold in my lips, particularly my bottom lip. 



We climb the short gravel slope to the riverside path, the river is as still as I have ever seen it...and quiet. Islands of ice float downstream, coalescing and disbanding at the will of the current. “Holy shit...it’s only November first…” I think to myself. This is going to be a long, cold winter. As we walk upstream a faint scraping sound comes to our attention.



The ice, wandering down stream, grazes with the ice coupled to the river’s bank. The sound is nearly that of nails on a chalkboard, but pleasant. Perhaps they are auditory cousins. The sound gently scrapes along, differing by the size of the ice sheet, creating a feeling that there are many scrapes, scratches, and etchings occurring all along the river (which of course there was). 

It’s almost cold enough for Wim Hof.



It is the winter spirits, they are celebrating. They can once again skate on the soon-to-freeze river. Closing my eyes I can picture all of them gliding up and down the riverway, wearing dated clothing, perhaps the clothes they had worn in their era. Black bonnets slightly cocked, a black and white plaid scarf wrapped around the neck, tail dancing along to the movement, and a red pea-coat covering just below the knees. The morning spirits were not taunting me as I watched them from my warm home, they, excited as Christmas morning children, wanted me to join them. To play and celebrate the winter, to reveal that winter can be fun. Showing me that fearing the winter will only make it longer and colder.