In October 2015—just as I was finally starting to feel settled into my classes at Camosun after a year of being that guy who always sat in the back, never raised his hand, and darted off campus as soon as class was done—I was working a graveyard shift at a take-out sushi place downtown. I would get up about 2 am, make some breakfast and ride my bike down the quiet nighttime streets until I made it to the corner of Douglas and Fort. On a good day, if I pedalled as fast as I could and the traffic lights turned in my favour, I could get downtown faster than if I took the bus. It was nice to have a bit of income while I went to school; it wasn’t the worst job, mostly because I worked with friends and I’ve always loved being awake at odd times of the day. But as I cycled around town on that rickety old bike, praying the rusty chain didn’t snap clean in two, an odd sense of being frozen in time trailed behind me.
I’d been doing this post-secondary thing for a year, I thought to myself. I had managed to stay teetotal for over two years, but, still, there was a sense that I was failing, stuck in quicksand, and doomed to a quick life and a slow death.
That might sound dramatic, because at the time, I liked to be.
Things went on like this for a while. I kept to myself, taking stock of the world some called home, and taking many a nap in the comfy chairs on the second floor of the Lansdowne library, looking out onto the roof blanketed with pines and soggy, wind-torn leaves; beyond the roof, delivery trucks occasionally pulled in and out of Argyle Avenue. The sounds of knowledge being absorbed—scratching pencils, zipping book bags, and chair legs sliding over carpets behind bookshelves—were everywhere.
The feeling I carried around campus with me was a similar feeling to the one I’m carrying now: a sense that things are okay, but that they might never get better, or that we might have more obstacles thrown our way quicker than we can lob in solutions for survival, let alone living.
I just went about my routine. I breathed in, then out, put one foot in front of the other until those footfalls landed me in the library one frigid morning, listening to a guy with an impressive beard and rectangle glasses talk about writing for the student paper. I took a chance, figured, “What the hell, he’d probably never contact me anyway, but I sure hope he does,” and scribbled my name down on the volunteer sheet.
I was wrong. He did.
My first story involved me going down to Fan Tan Alley to chat with Gary at The Turntable about one of my favourite passions: music through the ages.
A handful of years and countless stories later, I’m reminded of a cliché: that change and opportunities often come on whims when we least expect them to and need them the most. I was worried that writing for Nexus might be an anxiety-inducing burden.
I was wrong again.
We’re always looking for new writers, so shoot me an email if you want to try your hand at something new. Whether your dig is arts stories, long-form features, or strongly worded opinion pieces, we’ll get you started right away and show you how to do it every step of the way.
Adam Marsh, student editor
adam@nexusnewspaper.com