Frank is a widower standing alone in a new world
Loss wakes him, memory calls him, and in the quiet unknown—he begins again.
If you’ve ever lost someone—or lost yourself—The Shovelling Man Series is for you.
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The Shovelling Man Series explores grief, memory, & the quiet work of starting over.
Frank, widowed late in life, moves through small daily acts—shovelling snow, walking the Camino, sipping coffee in distant cafés. A story of loss becomes a reminder: it’s the ordinary moments that carry us back to life.
Welcome to Frank's Story...
Below are the initial Shovelling Man Stories
Preview The Shovelling Man Series (1-7)
#1 The Shovelling Man: A Fox
It was the first real snow of the winter. Frank pushed the back door curtains aside and saw a giant polar bear roll out there. He ignored his grizzled reflection in the mirror as he booted and suited up. Before he took the shovel in hand, he saluted Julie, his wife of over forty years, now deceased.
He hesitated at the backdoor, wondering if he wouldn't rather sit down and watch more television like he had for the last 21 days. He was tired, and it was cold.
When he opened the door, the wind gripped it and ripped it from his hand. Struggling against the force of the wind, he had to step outside to pull the door shut. He locked it and closed the curtains.
That night, Frank sat in the darkness of his living room and watched the snow squalls dancing down his road.
A storm of life, a metaphor without a wife.
Twenty-one days had passed since he had belonged to anyone. Sleep was his respite. He looked over at the sofa where he slept, a stark reminder of his solitude, and then back to the window, where he had kept a vigil since he had quit the TV. He scanned the horizon of houses, streetlights, and roads, watching for anything that moved. One night, a fox cantered down his road and into the woods. Most nights, he waited for the teenage boy to cross in front of his window at 11:55. Shoulders hunched and smoking a cigarette, a solitary figure in the night. He wondered if the boy had ever seen the fox.
#2 The Shovelling Man Begins
At 10 a.m., Frank’s neighbour Gord was dragging a path through the snow with a freshly cut Christmas tree.
Maureen was in the window, clapping her hands. Undoubtedly, she had prepared all the Christmas decorations and something savoury was cooking in the oven for their family, who would arrive to light the tree—their tradition.
Frank looked at the corner where his and Julie’s tree would have stood.
The air was damp. Frank pulled his blanket around him, wishing he could be upstairs near the warmth of the fire, but that would be lonelier.
His tea was cold. He set his cup in the sink with a clunk. Then, not knowing what to do with himself, he leaned against the counter and folded his arms. His shovel waited on the porch like an old friend calling for him to go out.
If Gord could drag a huge Christmas Tree home, he could shovel some snow. He looked out the back door and decided he would shovel. It was not a monumental task.
If Julie were here, still with him, they'd shovel until their faces were numb. Afterwards, she’d make the hot-buttered rums, and he'd bring wood up from the basement and spark the fire.
She'd sit in hers and he in his. Contented.
Fifty years of contentment.
#2 The Shovelling Man cont.
He shook his head at his silent chaos and the unsettling feeling of death still alive in his mind.
When he stepped outside, he raised his shovel like a sword and breathed in the icy air.
Julie was probably watching him from above.
Keep the light on for me, he said to the pale grey sky, and he dug the shovel in.
Again, he shook his head at the unsettling ness of her death and dug the shovel in again.
He’d do her proud!
And if I’m lucky, he thought as he threw a shovelful of snow, maybe, just maybe, I'll have a heart attack.
Gord will look out his window and see me frozen in the snow, preserved in ice, and my soul already travelling to Julie.
One could only hope!
Frank shovelled.
#3 Shovelling Man: For You, Julie, I can do anything!
Sunday was a blizzard. Frank grabbed his shovel and headed out in the middle of it. A snow squall gusted around him so he could barely see in the whiteout. His nose ran--and ran!
He knocked his glasses sideways, wiping his nose. Already, his face was numb.
Then the sun cut through the dullness, and the wind joined it. His toque was whipped off his head and landed in the higher arched branches of the birch, dropping dollops of snow on his head and down his back.
He stared at his out-of-reach toque, pushing away the memory of Julie planting that tree so long ago. He hadn’t looked at the tree in years.
A plough rambled down the road, leaving a fat lip of snow at the base of his driveway. By the time he had cleared it, his ears were freezing and his fingers stiff. When the shovel broke, he tossed it behind the garage.
Only an excuse was all he ever needed for a trip to the Canadian Tire; Julie’d tease him. She’d be leaning against the stove, waiting for whatever she was baking. She was always baking something. The warmth, the smells of ginger cake, apple pies and bread she had taken with her.
A solo trip. This was a solo trip, wasn't it, Julie?
When Frank changed his coat, he looked at hers’ as though he would hold it up for her to put on. How could she leave? And so soon?
#3 Shovelling Man cont.
As he backed the truck out of the garage, he looked at the blue shutters with the cutout hearts─Julie’s choice. Everything was her choice.
Frank followed the plough tracks down the road. When he reached for his sunglasses, he ignored her gloves on the passenger's seat, her sunglasses in the cup holder, and the statue of St Christopher she hung from the rearview mirror to keep them safe.
How could she have passed and left so much behind? Every inch of their home was hers. He was the bystander, the chauffeur, the painter and the labourer who carried everything into the house and positioned it where she wanted. He was the fixer! How he missed her calling out, Frank, can you come here and help me?
Frank, can you build me a bookshelf? She had asked him early in their marriage. And so began his response that would last their entire marriage: For you, Julie, I can do anything.
Over the years, they laughed at their shared joke because he would respond the same way to Frank! can you fix the sink? Frank! Can you build me a swing for the backyard? Frank! Can you install the water fountain?
For you, Julie, I can do anything.
As he waited at the traffic light, he wondered about moving - a strange thought.
Where? And how, if their home was still so full of her and them. How was he supposed to manage all of this?
Miffed, he dismissed the thought and drove on.
At the Canadian Tire, he and another man watched an in-store video. When they got to talking, they learned that they had both lost their wives in the last few months.
Learning to cook and clean and getting used to being alone, said the man. Frank nodded.
I will be leaving in the Spring, the stranger said; I don’t like being there without her. Too damn lonely. Gonna live with my daughter two towns over.
The men shook hands and wished each other well with their best awkward smiles.
Too damn lonely, said Frank.
#4 Shovelling Man: The Tibetan Book of the Dead
It was Julie's decision to purchase the book. When The Tibetan Book of the Dead arrived on a Monday, it was with a shared hesitation that it remained on the shelf next to the fireplace.
Because it was Julie’s decision, Frank waited for her to open the package. The book meant they had moved past her diagnosis and hospital stay to the next step. When Julie finally cut open the brown paper, she held it up, remarking on its beautiful traditional binding and elegant script.
Over the next few months, they embarked on a shared journey through the book, their together-readings and earnest discussions serving as a lifeline between them. The readings guided Frank through the preparation and provided them with a shared language, an intimate, comforting and necessary dialogue.
At night, he'd whisper in her ear: Fundamental light. Oh, nobly born, let not thy mind be distracted...
There were other nights when they would put on Van Morrison's Into the Mystic. He'd twirl her around in the living room until she couldn’t. He dropped his head into his hands and stayed there until the grief passed. Then, he dressed and grabbed his shovel.
Gord looked out his living room window. It was midnight, and Frank was shovelling. He shook his head, but he understood.
∞
#5 Shovelling Man: Humbled by Her Courage
On the nights when Frank couldn't sleep, he would shovel and then head to the backyard, where he would sit in the snowbank behind the garage and beneath the big spruce so the neighbours couldn't see him.
Frank watched the streetlights fill with snow. That night, he remembered Julie pointing at him and saying, You can do this!
Frank wanted to be nearby while she worked in the kitchen, in case. He looked out their back window as she prepared their supper. The trees cast deep black shadows, like they did tonight.
Since Julie had returned from her three-month hospitalization, Frank had cooked every night except for that one; she had insisted.
As he twisted the pasta on his fork, ‘Til Death Do Us Partskipped in his mind like an old LP.
Engaged at high school graduation and then married the following summer at the church down the road.
‘Til Death Do Us Part, she said softly, as though reading his mind.
Of course, he replied. Of course.
She reached for his hand, squeezed it, and then patted it as if that was what she needed to hear.
The transparency of her skin, flattened breasts, and the scarf around her head... Her courage. Would he have the same courage when his time came?
#5 Shovelling Man: cont.
What would he do without her?
I won't be here for you, she said.
Ahh, he said, but you'll be up there holding the door.
She nodded a smile. Let me do the cleanup.
Frank knew she cried when she washed dishes. And that she needed to have her time alone. Signals of their new status.
Lord Tennyson came to mind as he sat in his reading chair:
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair,
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
He reached for Tennyson in their collection to read the poem because he decided to combine contemporary and ancient materials for her service. When he had finished copying out the poem, he slipped it into the Tibetan book to the part he was memorizing to whisper to her just before she spirited off:
O nobly-born, Julie Anne MacKinnon, the time hath come for thee to seek the path. Thy breathing is about to cease. Thy guru hath set thee face to face before the Clear Light; and now thou art about to experience it in its Reality in the Bardo, where all things are like the void and cloudless sky, and the naked, spotless intellect is like unto a transparent vacuum without circumference or centre. At this moment, know thou thyself, and abide in that state. I, too, at this time, am setting thee face to face.
She liked it, he remembered, as he folded the paper and slipping it into his wallet. She had loved everything he had compiled for her. Their love for one another had grown in a way neither could have predicted.
As he turned off the garage light, he saw the plough pass, raising the lip of snow at the end of his driveway. Tomorrow, he thought.
#6 Shovelling Man: A Shovel in His Eye
He awoke, startled by the bizarre dream of a shovel in his eye.
Shovel in my eye?! Shovel in my eye?!
See what?!
Am I supposed to see something?
The ambiguity of the dream bothered him like a message only half heard. He had zero patience for anything that wasn’t as straightforward as death.
Had Julie pushed the shovel in his eye? He shook his head, dispelling the twisted thought. It wasn't her.
Throwing the comforter aside, Frank slid his feet into his slippers, stood at the bedroom window and assessed the snow like he did every morning.
Ah, but she had tugged at his beard in the dream and laughed, he remembered as he walked downstairs.
See what, though, Julie? he spoke to her even though she wasn’t in the kitchen and would never be with him again. See me back in our bed again?
He grabbed his snowsuit and took his shovel. He seldom looked at anything other than the snow and he ignored everything except the occassional nighttime passersby as he sat in his snowbank.
His house baffled him at night, but more so in the morning, with the entire day ahead of him.
Shovel in my eye, indeed. He cleared off his back steps until the shovel scraped against the concrete.
#6 Shovelling Man: cont.
Was there too much to think about, or was it nothing but a matter of time? He didn’t know. He had no answers to anything.
When he shovelled, he thought only of the snow’s weight, his back, and the toss: shovel, dig, look around, throw, and repeat. The blankness of his mind, like the snow, suited him.
But, by God, if he could, he'd level a mighty shovel underneath everything and toss it. But it wouldn't melt into the multidimensional like the snow. He leaned on the handle grip of the shovel and closed his eyes. What was next? What could possibly be next?
He knew he needed to consider Julie's sewing room, as she called it. Her stuff, notebooks, drawings, journals and extensive wardrobe neatly divided into seasons and colours. Her things were beyond his understanding. Yet, he knew he needed to do this because she was not coming back.
Now?
Yes, now.
He set his shovel behind the garage in a snowbank. Icicles hung from the garage. He jumped and grabbed one.
Everyone had secrets, he thought knowingly. He tossed the icicle into the snowbank next to his back steps.
He side-eyed the upstairs and took his tea into the living room. He looked at the Tibetan book and thought of the TV. Imagine the depth of contemplation he could achieve if he delved into her journals. But Julie’s Truth was not his. Nor would it lead to his liberation. It was all the past and hers, not his. He sipped his tea and looked out the window.
He grappled with knowing things he was not meant to know, hesitating and finally acknowledging that he had no desire to traverse the path of her private world, especially since she had chosen to keep it to herself. Let well enough be, he thought.
He was done with the Bardo, the between state. Oh nobly-born, the time hath come for thee to see the Path, he said aloud, as he set his teacup in the sink with a clunk. The snow would melt. Julie was gone, and decisions had to be made.
#7 Shovelling Man: Once the Snow Had Gone
Frank watched the sunrise. He had not slept because his mind was lit with the possibilities of his life.
His ideas were beyond his ken. It was as though he had stepped inside a gateway, a portal to places of his imagination where adventures were there for the taking.
He and Julie had done everything together.
They were a good couple. But now Frank was alone, and time was ticking away on his clock.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead's descriptions of the Bardo’s states between death and rebirth reflected how he felt himself to be. He was between the between. Between life and death-the death of his wife of fifty years and his own rebirth into… That was the question he feared to pose. He did not know what was after the old life and what began his new life.
He felt as though he had experienced everything. He had grieved Julie, mourned their life together, and cherished their moments of joy. Now, his grief was lifting. Though he felt liberated, a part of him feared the freedom he could feel entering his life.
He wanted to renew his life and give it colour as engaging as this sunset, this brilliance that he alone could love at this moment. When the sun warmed his face, he knew he was never alone. It was incredible to be standing here in fundamental gratitude for the astounding beauty that God had created today.
#7 Shovelling Man: cont.
He had slept through so many sunsets─so many, so many, so many. He had slept through so much. This feeling was a gift, as was the snow that fell at night when he sat on his icy throne, looking up at the moon.
Frank would take his next step. He would address Julie's possessions and maybe even sell their home because he needed it fresh wherever he went.
He was nervous and excited, and for a moment, he felt Julie beside him, and then she was gone.
She was gone. His heart plummeted into his stomach.
As he leaned on his shovel, he thought he had life yet to live. But for the life of him, he had no idea what an old man like him could do to bring about a new life.
What could he do with his life?
He wasn’t a man given to dreams or thoughts of that sort.
He welcomed the sound of the plough when it came down the road and filled in his driveway again, relieved that he could shovel.
His boots crunched in the snow as he walked to the entrance of his driveway.
Finally, he heard the crows. His morning companions.
He dug his shovel into the snow and threw it.
Shovel, dig, look around, throw, and repeat.
Shovel, dig, look around, throw, and repeat.
He would miss this when the season changed. He had come to truly love the snow, the cold, and the liberation from his mind as he shovelled.
When he was done clearing his driveway entrance, he looked at the front of his house. It was a good house. It had been a good home for him and Julie and they had been happy in their marriage.
Everything was different now.
He sighed and looked up the road at his neighbours’ homes.
Everything was different now.
From here on, things would change. He knew it. He could feel the change within. He was at the corner of what was and what would be.
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reviews:The Shovelling Man Series
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“The book is an insightful account of the grief journey of a spouse and the difficult decisions he makes to honour his beloved while he struggles to move forward.” (...and
YOU have inspired us to BURN our many years worth of journals some time late summer.
Then no dilemma for those we leave behind.
THANK you for your "Shoveling Man" idea.) Joyce B
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The Shovelling Man Series is a very compassionate book. It's a simple story about a man who is suffering after the death of his wife. He has to heal his grief. And there is all this snow outside...It's very Zen. It's a story about how much he loved his wife. It's also a story about how he must go on. It's a very stoic story. I really enjoyed this book. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wcp2SkijEGc
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Tibetan Book of the Dead: the 49th day
#8 Shovelling Man: The 49th Day!
He knocked on Julie's sewing room door like she could be there. Usually, he would pass her the book to reread as she had done before she left, travelled, passed, died.
They would read it together later in the night. There was a place for it on the bookshelf next to her reading chair.
He looked around at all the things, hers, not his.
He wanted to back out, and for a furious moment, he wished she had taken care of her things instead of leaving everything to him.
He sat under the window on a pillow with her notebooks in front of him. He opened the final page of her last journal. Remember, The Book says that on the 49th day, I will be reborn. Today was that day!
He wished her a clear and untroubled mind, and then he read.
You have always wanted to do some things; now go do them. I'll meet you again later. Be brave.
Later. He stumbled on the word. And what was it he wanted to do?
Frank was no longer bursting with ideas. Wild travel, new hobbies, and whatever else he had thought about during the sunrise were all pipe dreams.
He would never get rid of one of her notebooks. No,he would. He had to!
#8 Shovelling Man: The 49th Day!
God, he wished he could pick up his shovel and head outside. It would be so much better than the finality of burning her life story. The firepit was set up in his backyard, ready to be lit. All he had to do was carry her journals to the backyard.
The sun hit his forehead, telling him it would be down soon. Final decisions to read or release.
He picked up the Tibetan Book and reread the passage that warned her not to return, for he knew she could never. They had talked about this point.
Be not attracted to the dull blue light of the brute-world; be not weak. If thou art attracted, thou wilt fall into the brute-world, wherein stupidity predominates, and it will be a very long time ere thou canst get out.
That was when they laughed, and she would apologize for needing to leave this brute-world first.
Be not attracted to it. Put thy faith in the bright, dazzling, fire-coloured radiance. Direct your mind one-pointedly toward the deities, the Knowledge-Holding Conquerors and the Ḍākinī...
And Julie would say: Ah, the Ḍākinī, the beautiful “sky dancers,” and the most sacred female in The Tibetan Book. And she would smile and say, I am awaiting the moment I meet the Ḍākinī who will have come from the holy paradise realms to receive Me...
And Julie would repeat: Me! With her hand held over her heart.
And Frank would say, I haven't got my travelling suit pressed and ready to go yet.
And Julie would assure him that she would keep the light on for him.
He held the book to his heart, closed his eyes, and waited for the spirits to disappear.
When he had lit the fire, he watched it consume a lifetime of her words.
#9 Shovelling Man: Time was Up!
Frank would find a new barber on the other side of town. He’d been going to Charlie for years but couldn’t do the conversation with him and the guys who would regularly show up for morning coffee.
They knew too much about him, which made his grief and confusion easy to read. After he left, there would be a Poooor Frankie! comment with their coffee. He knew because he’d participated in these conversations before. And though it wasn’t meant to be derisive, it would place him in a category of slumped-shouldered widowers.
Besides, conversation required too much of him these days. Really, all he wanted was to dig shovelfuls of the white stuff and throw it until he was too tired to think, but that had come to an end.
Spring had arrived. Frank went to Canadian Tire and bought a rake─ an ergonomic tool for the serious yardman. He stood in the backyard with his arms crossed on the top of the rake and looked away at nothing, wondering what he was doing. Was he the yards man of the property that was no longer a home?
He didn’t know.
When the crocuses appeared in the neighbourhood, but Julie's did not, Frank raked their property again. When the daffodils and tulips failed to grace the front garden, Frank was perplexed. But neighbours stopped and commented when the row of poppies never appeared.
#9 Shovelling Man: cont.
Frank said he had nothing to do with it and added a weak laugh.
As the days passed, he became acutely aware that the nights were getting longer, and he inexplicably felt ill at ease about something he couldn't define or dismiss.
Leaves drifted down from the birch, creating a mottled canvas of his lawn and walkway. He raked, bagged, mowed, trimmed, and weeded, and afterwards, he sat in exhausted silence on Julie’s swing in the backyard.
He spoke so rarely that his voice was rough, and the heaviness of unexpressed thoughts inside him was collecting like old arthritis.
It was as though someone had pulled a curtain around his life.
Before, he and Julie had filled their days with an ongoing conversation. All the stories about their neighbours, funerals, weddings, and guess who I bumped into today were done. The trusted daily company that asked how he was and where he was off to was done, too. And there was no, good night, Frank, before the click of the bedside lamp.
Frank had never truly contemplated leaving before, but now he wondered, given the statelessness of his life. When thoughts became things, and he remembered the sunrise morning.
He stowed the lawn mower in the garage next to his shovel collection and closed the garage.
He was going to go inside, but something like an unfinished thought stopped him.
Since he burned Julie’s journals, he felt he'd aged twenty years. He seemed to be living without either a past or a future. He was floating─ a floating yardman without a wife.
No one knew what she knew about him, her, them. She’d taken their stories with her. She’d erased the chalkboard, deleted the content, cut the connections, severed like a head decapitated.
Such a gruesome thought. Where did that come from?
#9 Shovelling Man: cont.
Back inside, he moved from room to room, pushing aside the curtains to look outside, and that was it. Life was outside him, and he knew it. But to take the first step.
He sat in his chair in the living room window. His hands folded into prayer. How do I walk away?
He found it among her cookbooks.
She had drawn the yellow scallop shell on the cover of a day planner. This was her preparation for their walk on the Camino Santiago in Portugal. The Camino Portuguese was the main topic of conversation before she got ill.
He had forgotten.
He opened her book and saw the woollen socks, hiking boots and walking sticks she had ordered for them and he laughed. Julie loved to plan. She had notes about the hotels, medieval towns, cobbled laneways with tapas bars and cafés, and a prison tower turned library. There was the bridge from the 1300s they would cross. And there were the long conversations after dinner about the metaphysics of the walk.
Imagine, Frank, she would begin, you and I walking the 12th-century pilgrim route from the Crusades that pilgrims had chosen because it offered them a safer alternative to the Holy Land.
Imagine, Frank, Templar-built castles and churches, golden-adorned sanctuaries funded by pilgrim offerings.
#9 Shovelling Man: cont.
Imagine, Frank, we will pay homage to Jesus's apostle, James the Greater, whose decapitated remains have rested in the Santiago Cathedral since the 9th century.
Oh, he remembered the decapitation. Thanks for the thought, Julie.
Imagine, Frank.
And he Imagined.
Cued by the taxi's honk, Frank locked the house and grabbed his luggage. Time was up. He was going!
As the taxi pulled out of his driveway, he was sure he saw the bedroom curtain move.
Impossible! Frank looked away.
He double-checked that he had his passport, currency, and airline ticket.
His hands sweated as he walked through the airport.
Kimberley Anne Williamson
Kim Williamson’s writing is touched by the spectre of mortality and the wisdom that comes with age, driven by her earnest exploration of humanity’s enduring quest for courage and understanding throughout life’s journey—a truly divine pursuit.
The character of Frank, known as The Shovelling Man, emerged in Williamson's creative vision upon her return from nearly a decade removed from winter’s grasp. Observing the laborious yet communal act of snow shovelling, she recognized in it a metaphor for resilience, community, and the human spirit. Frank’s narrative unfolds as a poignant exploration of grief and reinvention following the loss of his wife, Julie. Their enduring bond of over 50 years dissolved by death leaves Frank adrift in sorrow and uncertainty, seeking solace in the familiarity of snow and the physical exertion it demands. His weary yet determined spirit encapsulates the essence of his journey towards renewal and a redefined existence within his aging frame. PS: This is a bag of earth I am carrying.
Shovelling Man (1-11) mailed to your house!
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The Tangible Appeal of "The Shovelling Man"
In an age dominated by digital media, where e-books and online content reign supreme, there remains a devoted group of individuals who prefer the tactile experience of holding a physical book in their hands. This sentiment is particularly evident among fans of "The Shovelling Man," a unique, self-published work that offers a rich, sensory reading experience.
The Allure of Physical Books
The reasons for preferring physical books are multifaceted. One primary factor is the sensory engagement that a physical book provides. The smell of the paper, the texture of the pages, and the weight of the book all contribute to an immersive reading experience that digital versions simply cannot replicate. "The Shovelling Man," with its excellent paper quality, epitomizes this appeal. The feel of the high-quality paper between one's fingers enhances the overall enjoyment of the story, making the reader's journey alongside Frank all the more memorable.
Limited Editions and Collectibility
Another compelling reason for preferring physical copies is the sense of exclusivity and collectibility. "The Shovelling Man" has a limited print run, with fewer than 30 pages, making each copy a rare treasure. For collectors and bibliophiles, owning a physical copy of a limited edition book is akin to possessing a piece of art. It's a tangible asset that holds both sentimental and potential monetary value over time. The limited number of copies of "The Shovelling Man" elevates its status, turning it into a coveted item for enthusiasts.
Visual and Artistic Elements
"The Shovelling Man" distinguishes itself further through its unique visual presentation. The photos within the book, generated by text-to-image technology. A discrepancy between the book and its online counterpart adds an element of surprise and delight for readers, who can appreciate the exclusive visual content that is only available in the physical edition.
A Deeply Personal Journey
At the heart of "The Shovelling Man" is Frank, a widower after fifty years of marriage. He is about to undertake a journey that won’t be easy. Readers are invited to join Frank as he navigates his widowhood and life as he has never known it. This deeply personal and emotional journey resonates profoundly with readers, adding layers of empathy and connection that only a physical book of fiction can enhance.
Anticipation and Continuity
The excitement surrounding "The Shovelling Man" is not just about the present edition but also about the anticipation of future releases. The next installment in the series, "Shovelling Man Series 12-21," is set to be released in late October 2024. This ongoing series creates a sense of continuity and connection for readers, who eagerly await the next chapter in Frank's journey. Owning a physical copy of each installment allows readers to build a tangible collection that charts the progression of the story.
Support for Self-Published Authors
Purchasing a physical copy of "The Shovelling Man" also means directly supporting self-published authors. In an industry often dominated by large publishing houses, self-published works can struggle to gain visibility and recognition. By choosing to buy and hold a physical copy, readers are making a statement of support for independent authors, encouraging creativity and diversity in the literary world.
For those interested in joining Frank on his journey and experiencing the unique charm of "The Shovelling Man," copies can be purchased for $13 (this includes postage in Canada). Simply email or PayPal the money to the provided address below. This limited edition, with its exceptional quality and exclusive content, promises to be a valuable addition to any booklover’s collection.
Thank you for your interest and investment in Frank's journey and for supporting the world of self-published literature! Connect with me before you send money at kimberleyannewilliamson@gmail.com
paypal.me/kimberleyanneW or etransfer me kimberleyannewilliamson@gmail.com (use the email address to send me your address)
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The Shovelling Man Series
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Shovelling Man (Series 1-11) is the 1st publication in this series. Many more are to come as Frank finds his way and becomes more interested in things he never knew existed.