Sticky Notes - How I became a writer.

COMMENTS ON THE CRAFT.

My grandmother –– who was like a second mother to me –– died after a vessel in her brain exploded. I heard the explosion a couple hundred miles away in Louisville, Kentucky. It sounded like the ringing of my phone and my father's voice on the other end of it.

At the time of her passing, I was studying at a small Catholic college. Right outside my dormitory, sat a church with a piano in it.

For a long time, I couldn't get the sound of her voice out of my head –– especially late at nights when the world was quiet –– and so I'd sneak into this church, many times drunk as a skunk, and I'd fumble about this piano with heavy fingers and hands.

I wouldn't so much sing the words to the chords I was playing but speak them; it was sometime around here that I realized there was a well somewhere in me that words would spring from. 

I didn't pick up the pen again until a couple of years later after doing everything I could to run away from it.

But the written word had a hold of me; it had tossed a lasso around my neck back in that church and like a dog venturing too far away from its owner, it'd give me a gentle tug when it saw I had wandered out of sight.

So I ended up quitting a shitty desk job I was working after college and with it, a steady paycheck; and I moved in with my parents and began working odd jobs to cover my nut (which was very little due to my parents' kindness in bringing me in).

I was introduced to a clever cat by the name of Mark Handlin who owned a paint and carpentry shop in Evansville, Indiana called Paint & Carpet Depot. Mark knew I wanted to be a writer so he had me work for him from about 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. and then he'd cut me loose so I could run off and
chase Hemingway.

I'll never forget that first day on the job: Mark handed me a utility knife, a pair of leather work gloves, a roll of duct tape so goddamn heavy it could knock your teeth out, an address smeared on a wrinkled piece of paper and the keys to a beat-to-hell work van.

I thought he was sending me off to murder someone. 

Over the next year, I'd take these gigs working for Mark, where I'd spend hours tearing out old, dilapidated piss-soaked carpet, roll the carpet into burritos the size of tree trunks, duct-tape their mouths shut and then hoist them over my shoulders and carry them off to the van. 

At the end of my shifts, the tips of my fingers would ache –– as if they had been mashed by a ball-peen hammer –– from pinching the edges of that carpet and tearing them up from the tack strips. 

During these shifts, I listened to hundreds if not thousands of podcast interviews with people I so desperately wanted to be: Laura Belgray, Derek Sivers, Sophia Amoruso, Aaron Draplin, Rupi Kaur, etc. 

On the days when the work felt exceptionally heavy and difficult to bear, I'd tell myself that I was getting paid $15/hour cash to get a remote MBA delivered entirely through a pair of sweat-soaked earbuds. 

After work, I'd blow the dirt from nose, shower myself clean and hole up at a coffee shop and write. God, would I write. I still write with reckless abandon but back then I wrote as if I was a Roadrunner fleeing the open jaws of a coyote high on crack cocaine.

Half of these shifts were spent begging brands to give me a chance and the other half was spent writing down anything that came to mind. 

After a lot of at-bats, I finally made contact with a gent who was willing to give me a chance; a gent by the name of Nick Wangler who used to head marketing for an incubator out of Indianapolis called DeveloperTown

I still don't think Nick realizes what hiring me as a freelancer did for my confidence. He offered to pay me 3x what I was getting paid tearing out carpet and while I imagine I showed glimpses of promise, I know he had to put up with a young twenty-two-year-old writer that didn't yet know what he didn't know.

The work paid well. I learned a lot. But, there weren't enough hours to quit my side-hustle; I kept tearing out carpet and pestering brands to give me a shot. 

After a year of this, I decided to apply for a copywriter position at Onnit in Austin, Texas. I got it. I was offered $55k/ year. Up to this point, it was the most amount of money I had ever seen in my life.

But, something told me that if I kept living and working by my own terms, I'd have a real shot at making a great deal more than that. 

I told them "no" and save for missing out on the opportunity to learn and work under a brilliant creative director by the name of Mike Spadier, it would end up being the right decision.

That next year, I made double freelancing what I would have made working full-time at Onnit and I was finally able to quit my job tearing out carpet, move out of my parents house and relocate to Nashville, Tennessee. 

During these post-Onnit days, readers started to email me telling me the effects my writing was having on their lives.

It was around this time that I realized that, while I might not have the chops to become one of the "greats", I was capable of stretching my wings beyond just freelance copywriting.

So, I started a weekly newsletter called
Sticky Notes –– which you are reading now –– which would end up becoming the single greatest career decision I would ever make.

Not only would it allow me to explore other forms of writing –– particularly longer-form essays –– but it would become a central hub for all writing I would pursue moving forward. 

My poetry books (
One Minute, Please?, After Her and Guillotine), my paid newsletter (Chasing Hemingway), my courses (Snow Cones, Freelancing to $100k, Don Draper and Don't Break The Chain), my memento (Let The Tigers Through The Door) and my one-man advertising agency (Honey Copy) were all thought-up and eventually released through this newsletter. 

I think at my age it's a bit silly –– and dare I say narcissistic? ––to spend too much time talking about "legacy". But, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think, from time to time, about what I'm trying to do here with the written word and what I'm hoping to be remembered for. 

Today, I'm landing on this... 

Roughly seven years ago today, I quit my desk job, labored for my meals under Mark Handlin, pestered the hell out of Nick Wangler and finally let that lasso drag me home, kicking and screaming. 

And what I've come to find is that if you show up enough days and sit down to do something –– for me it's about 2,555 days and counting –– you can turn a drunk, heart-broken boy lost in a church looking for his grandmother into something that looks like a writer.

Cheers, 

Cole

P.S. If this is your first time receiving this newsletter (because someone forwarded it to you) you can get it weekly by subscribing at the pretty black button down below 👇🏾

Subscribe to Sticky Notes.
DOES ANYONE KNOW ANYONE AT SERIAL?

I’d like to work with Serial in creating a podcast series called “The Serial Spanker” investigating the victims of the Smyrna Spanker.

Here's what I'm picturing in regards to a story arch...

[ episode one ]

The town of Smyrna, Tennessee is suddenly harassed by a man dressed entirely in black, save for an ivory white glove on his right hand.

He’s sneaking into homes late at night and handing out swift and forceful spankings to the good people of Smyrna. Some people are horrified. Others are aroused. But, mostly, everyone is confused.

[ episode two ]

An investigator is called in to get to the bottom of it. He conducts a series of interviews with The Smyrna Spanker’s victims. The stories are all identical…

The sleeping victims are startled awake by the thunderous sound of a spank, soon followed by a sharp sting in their buttocks. Both horrified and intrigued, they then watch as a black figure with a single white glove slip...

Read Episode #3 here.
DON'T GIVE THEM THE KEYS TO YOUR CAR.

Last night. Downtown Nashville. I’m walking out of Bridgestone Arena with my girl. I’m feeling inspired. She’s feeling inspired. Kendrick Lamar just put on one of the best shows we’ve ever seen. As the two of us bob and weave our way through the crowd, I can feel the electricity, still.

Suddenly, my girl lets out a screech as a guy walks past us and bats her red ball cap off of her head with his hand.

He continues to walk several yards and then stands next to his friend who is on the phone.

I turn. I walk up to him and I say, “You just knocked my girl’s hat off of her head –– that’s disrespectful.”

He and I exchange words. I stare him down for a long while. My hands turn to fists at my sides. My legs become heavy and light at the same time, as my adrenaline begins to surge. I know it’s my body preparing myself to fight.

He mouths something to me. I don’t hear him because my ears are ringing and my eyes have turned to red and all I can think about is risking it all, everything, to get the best of this stranger.

Somehow, I manage to collect my sense.

I smile at him, showing all of my teeth, the same way a chimpanzee smiles at its keeper before ripping his face off...

Continue reading.
THE CALLUSES ON MY HANDS CUT BOTH WAYS.

My grandfather is in his eighties now and moves much slower than he did once upon a time.

But, when I knew him in his sixties, his hands wore the scars of a life of labor and hardship.

The knuckles and bellies of his hands were armored with calluses so sharp and so jagged they could give a crocodile goosebumps and, with enough worrying, turning a burlap bag into a fabric as soft as silk.

While I don’t live a life nearly as taxing as my grandfather, my hands are home to smaller, smoother calluses formed from the decade I spent pounding a basketball against the pavement, lifting weights and now boxing and fighting.

Calluses are our bodies’ way of protecting themselves from repeated trauma.

In this way, like the cauliflower that clings to a wrestler’s ear or barnacles to the hull of a ship, they must be earned.

But, it’s worth remembering that the calluses on our hands cut both ways...

Ouch.
Copyright © 2022 Honey Copy, All rights reserved.
A while back you opted into a weekly email called "Sticky Notes". Remember? If not, you can always unsubscribe below... and risk breaking this writer's heart.

Our mailing address is:
Honey Copy
3116 N. Central Park
Unit #1
Chicago, IL 60618

Add us to your address book


Want to change how you receive these emails?
You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

Older messages

I wrote this drunk.

Sunday, July 31, 2022

Last night I found myself in a room filled with half-naked men LAST NIGHT, I FOUND MYSELF IN A ROOM FILLED WITH HALF-NAKED MEN. I'm sucking down a tequila soda, watching two dozen piss-drunk

I'm looking for John Martin.

Friday, July 22, 2022

Does anybody here know a John Martin? Yeah, it's John with a "J" and then "ohn". I NEED HELP, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. *ATTENTION* Charles Bukowski didn't become Charles

Something... new.

Monday, July 11, 2022

Clint Eastwood, Monarch Butterflies and Denver Omelets. DON'T BE DIRTY, HARRY. *ATTENTION* Here in the next week or so, I will be launching something entirely new. I'm intentionally keeping it

Tuna Fish.

Monday, June 27, 2022

This is hands down the most bizarre story I've ever heard in my life. LET'S CALL IN THE HEAVIES. In Antibes –– a gorgeous coastal town that sits along the French Riviera like a stubborn old

Mind your head.

Monday, June 20, 2022

Journeying "across the pond" feels like staying the night at your friend's house. MIND YOUR HEAD. I arrived in London late last night after spending a long weekend in the English

You Might Also Like

👀 3 small biz ideas you’ve never thought about

Thursday, March 28, 2024

These unconventional Main Street biz's will raise your eyebrows... 3 small biz ideas you've probably never thought about Hey Contrarians, 🚨 Brace for impact 🚨 Our BigDeal podcast is coming to

3-2-1: On muddy puddles and leaky ceilings, the secret to productivity, and how to spoil a great relationship

Thursday, March 28, 2024

3 ideas, 2 quotes, and 1 question to consider this week. ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

24 Hours Left: Grab Your Discounted CEX Ticket Now!

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Last call to save on your ticket - spring pricing goes away at the end of March ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

Every cold outreach intro:

Thursday, March 28, 2024

I'm so impressed by what you are doing ‌ ‌ ‌ We have 4 updates for you this week: 1. On Peep's Mind Every cold outreach starts with a variation of "I'm so impressed by what you're

Here's What You Missed

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Last week, David hosted a live Q&A about all things writing and Write of Passage. Here are ten of the best questions we covered. Write of Passage logo transparent-1 The Write of Passage Bootcamp is

Do you know where your burnout is hiding?

Thursday, March 28, 2024

When “outer work” meets “inner work” ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

Beard Dough

Thursday, March 28, 2024

When Russians paid the government for the right to have facial hair ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

🧙‍♂️ 6 new sponsorships opps we hunted down

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Plus secret research on Lululemon, NerdWallet, and WHOOP ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌ ‌

It's Q2: Time to build

Thursday, March 28, 2024

When people ask what Copywriting Course is, I have to explain it's actually a series of courses. It's like a tote bag that comes with a bunch of items: ​ You don't become a world-class

• Email marketing for authors + posts to 100K FB Group readers + Tweets

Thursday, March 28, 2024

Reserve your date... Email Marketing for Authors by ContentMo enable images to see this "Books of the Day" Promotions for Authors and Publishers with Social Media Extras! Dates Fill Up Fast,