Lake Days

cropped-wood_nymph_ev_aug_20141.jpgI haven’t gone to the lake much this summer and my impatience for heat and cloudless skies is consuming me. Lakelse Lake Picnic Site has always been a big part of my summer. It’s true that it’s beautiful and worthy of visiting in any season, any weather, but I long for the heat that makes going to the lake seem the only sensible thing to do.
 
I moved to Terrace in 1979. Driving into town that first time, I was horrified. Had we moved back to Kamloops? The lawns had the same parched, burnt to beige color. Every strip of dirt was hard baked clay. My legs stuck to the ivory vinyl seats of the station wagon and my hair was wet on my neck and glued by sweat to my forehead. It was HOT.
 
My brother and I unpacked our rooms and tried to explore, but it was too warm. For days we lived in our sprinkler and wading pool. Then water restrictions ruled; no sprinkler all day. We could fill the pool once daily, but a whole day of three kids playing in one small pool quickly creates a grass and dead bug infested mess. It lost its appeal. One day, our mother, driven to desperation by the heat and our constant whining, announced we were going to the lake.
 
A lake? Finally something that sounded interesting. We packed up chips, green grapes, and sand toys and off we went. Our legs still stuck to the vinyl seats but now it didn’t seem as complaint worthy. Plus, though they stung if you lifted them too quickly, they made farting noises if you lifted them slowly. Endlessly amusing.
 
“We’ll never get there,” we moaned eventually. Then suddenly we were at the top of a hill, and what could we see shimmering blue between the trees and mountains in the distance? Could it be?
 
“Look guys, there’s the lake,” my mom confirmed.
 
“HOORAY,” we yelled. (It would become our tradition to repeat those exact words, with feverish glee, every time we spotted the lake in the future.)
 
Walking the paved path to the graveled picnic area and coming upon the incredible, huge fairy story trees and the glimmering expanse of water that looked golden in the afternoon sun made me, for the first time, think that maybe, just maybe, this living in Terrace idea could be okay.
 
We visited the lake almost every day for the rest of the summer. We’d work all morning (my mom could bribe us to do almost anything with promise of a lake trip), and by afternoon it would be so hot that even she wouldn’t feel like working. Thus started a habit I’ve kept for over thirty years: hit the lake as soon and as often as possible.
 
Now when I sit on the rough bark of a natural tree bench that I’ve visited for years, squishing sand through my toes, my mind and my body remember my childhood.
 
In the water I am forever eight. My feet delight in the soft-as-silk rippled sand under the water. I still alligator walk and do dolphin dives and continuous back rolls; I can’t help myself. I still know the disgusting but hilarious feeling of a handful of lake bottom on my back or head. A weed grabbing my ankle still makes me shriek, and the underwater whine of boat engines still creeps me out. I daydream about mermaids.
 
Staring up at the sky, I realize that visiting this spot is the most consistent thing in my life. The water has seen every bathing suit I’ve owned. Every person I’ve tried to be or thought I was has walked the beach. I was a child here and a dream-filled teen. This site has known my friends, boyfriends, and husband. I’ve been pregnant on its sands and nursed my newborns in its huge trees’ shade. My children played here—and now I come to its shores and splash in the waves with my adult son and my daughter and her husband.
 
The drive is shorter to me now that I’m an adult, my car has cloth seats that I don’t stick to, and often I’m alone. But when I get to that certain place on the hill, I still announce, “There’s the lake!” and my whole body feels it: HOORAY. Yeah, this living in Terrace idea is a pretty good one after all.
 
– – – – – – – – – –
“Lake Days” originally ran in the Terrace Standard in July 2001, but in light of the beautiful weather we’ve enjoyed this year I thought it was a lovely one to share once more, edited slightly to adjust for the passage of even more years–and my editors agreed. Thus it was reprinted in the Standard August 25th, 2015. I hope it triggers fond memories of your own childhood. Enjoy these last long days of summer, everyone—and get thee to the lake! ~ Ev

Get Hooked! :)

EvBishop_Hooked_800pxWow, it’s been a busy few weeks! How can summer almost be done? *Wails!* Ah, well . . . at least the sun has returned. I will just have to do my very best to suck as much fun and delight out of every warm day we have left. (The sacrifice, the sacrifice, heh, heh! :D)  *Rushes off to pack for the lake*–and on that note, if you’re looking for a reading treat for the beach blanket, campsite, cozy corner of your yard or lamp-lit recliner on the couch, consider HOOKED. It’s getting great reviews (for which I’m incredibly grateful) and is a perfect end of summer read.

Here are the first two chapters. I hope you get Hooked. ;)

Hooked by Ev Bishop

~ Chapter 1 ~

Sam was fresh from the shower, barefoot and dressed only in a robe. She wrapped her arms around herself and turned in a slow circle. Five stars or not, a hotel room was always just a hotel room, wasn’t it? It was beautiful with its teak four-poster bed, matching highboy and desk, and snow-white linens, but generic nonetheless.

She settled into the leather wingback chair, the room’s best feature in her opinion, and put her feet up. A niggle of surprise tickled her as she uncapped a pen and reached for her spiral bound notebook. Who’d have thought? Samantha Kendall using a diary. But she couldn’t help it. The movement of her hand across page, the scent of the paper, the process of filling the sheet with the mess in her head—slowly at first, then so fast her hand cramped—soothed her and helped her see more clearly than she had in a long time. Her life, once so beautiful and busy, felt empty. Come to think of it maybe that was the appeal of the journaling. She filled something. Created a tangible mark that she was here. That she lived.

The coffee pot on the desk across the room sighed and sputtered.

“Ah, my faithful friend,” she whispered, then got up, doctored herself a mug of the dark espresso blend, and settled down again.

She sipped her hot drink and drummed her fingers on her notebook. What to say, what to say?

She paused, drank more coffee, and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Finally she began to write.

Sheesh, three pages minimum is going to take hours today.

But it didn’t. By the time she had two cups of caffeine in her, she’d churned out her minimum, plus another three pages—yet she wasn’t calmed. She was edgier than ever. She scanned the last page, bit her lip and barely resisted the urge to tear the sheets loose and throw them away.

There’s nothing I hate more than my sister being right about anything, but I have to hand it to Jo. She is right about this, and the pros and cons I wrote yesterday confirm it.

I always figured Aisha would reenter my life at some point, if only, like seems to be the case, for medical information and “closure.” (How I hate that damn word!) I just thought I’d be at a spot in time, personally and professionally, that I could be proud of—or at least not a bloody embarrassment. But at the same time, I guess it’s not about me, is it? (Ha ha, quick, someone tell Jo I actually said that!) I would’ve done anything to have someone to talk to, when I was stuck in the same boat Aisha’s in, so how can I refuse her request to meet?

My two biggest fears: that she’ll ask about the asshole who fathered her. (What can I say about him that won’t just be a huge ugly shadow over her?), or that she’ll hate me—which is pretty hilarious because I definitely don’t want her in my life permanently.

That was the line that stopped her. She shook her head, crossed the last line out, drew an arrow, and scribbled furiously.

That she’ll hate me, which I’ll totally understand, or worse, want something I don’t have to give her. All of my love for her went out the door with her the day I gave her a chance for a better life. (Not that it seems to have panned out—but don’t even get me started!) And what if she does want a relationship? I have no frigging clue what I’ll do.

Samantha closed the book, and stashed it in her suitcase.

She paid special attention to her outfit and did her makeup and hair just so, but it wasn’t until she sprayed a light mist of perfume in front of her and walked through it that she admitted she’d made up her mind.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’d return to Greenridge. She’d see if she could be of any help to Aisha and answer any awkward questions her biological daughter had.

And then, so long as Jo and Callum were willing to let her monopolize one of their B & B cabins—and why wouldn’t they? Her cash was as good as anyone’s—she’d spend some concentrated time figuring out what exactly she wanted next and why her life, which she’d always enjoyed, wasn’t enough for her these days.

She cocked her head, smiled at her reflection in the mirror, and nodded approval at both the image she projected and her new thoughts. She was an excellent planner and there was no reason she couldn’t get herself back on track. And once she had a new direction, she’d leave Greenridge in the dust and never return. The place was a black hole. In lieu of a welcome sign at the beginning of town, there should be a plaque that read, “Abandon all hopes of having a life, ye who enter here.”

And if Jo wanted to visit now and again? Well, she’d have to sojourn out of her hobbit village and head for the city. Sam was done with the ghost town of bad memories. She was sick of the family-focused “great place to raise kids” motto that everyone in town seemed to spout. Not everyone had kids or even wanted them. And she was beyond weary of how the place reminded her that except for her one solitary sibling, Jo, she had no family. Everyone was dead. There’d be no TV movie worthy reunion or redemption scene. Greenridge was like one big beer commercial for all the things she didn’t have. And didn’t want, she reminded herself.

~ Chapter 2 ~

Charles tripped over the stuffed-to-bursting rucksack he’d stowed by his office door and stared at the ringing phone like it might bite. The call display showed T.C.O. Literary Management all too clearly, and unfortunately his agent Theresa, the “T” in T.C.O., knew he was home. After all, he’d just sent an e-mail seconds ago admitting it. He sighed heavily and picked up.

“Theresa, hi. Good to hear from you.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, and get real. You knew that e-mail wasn’t going to fly.”

“But—”

“And no buts.” Her voice softened. “I feel for you. You know I do. And I’m on your side even if it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s time, Charlie. Past time. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s time to rethink your career.”

Charles sank into his office chair and rolled back and forth across the room. He didn’t want to “rethink” his work. He loved what he did, what he wrote. Or he used to. And anyway, it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered doing something else. Just absolutely nothing came to him that didn’t sink him even more deeply into the mire of apathy and disillusionment he seemed unable to pull himself from. And now, with Aisha living only God knew where and insisting she was staying there to have her baby, he didn’t even have the occasional bright spot of her presence.

“You’ve used up all your reserve books, even your earliest ones that were previously unpublished for pretty good reasons. It’s just a good thing some readers don’t care what you write as long as the story says Jax Bailey on the cover.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Don’t get pissy. I love your books. You’ve earned reader loyalty, but even diehard fans are starting to grumble on the Interwebs. You can only play the dead wife card for so long before people start to think you need to get over it.”

Charles managed to not throw the phone across the room, but only just.

Theresa seemed to sense she’d crossed a line. “Sorry, that was crass. Obviously, healing isn’t an easy one, two, three process. I know you’re doing the best you can, just barely hanging on, and I know it will take time—but I’d hate to see you lose everything you worked so hard to build.”

Too late. Everything he’d worked for died when Maureen did. Still, Theresa wasn’t the enemy and she was on his side. He knew this. He also knew he’d probably exhausted every possible extension. He made a decent living, and Maureen’s life insurance had paid off the mortgage and left a little besides, but not enough to see him through life—and definitely not enough to provide ongoing stability to Aisha and her little one, should she decide to keep it. And he was a young(ish) man still. Forty-four was nowhere near the time to retire even if it felt closer to eighty these days.

“They need a new book, or, and it’s pretty nice of them, almost human in fact, they’ll forgive the contract without penalty, but if you ever want to write for them again, it’ll be like starting new.”

Perish the thought—and no, that wasn’t melodrama. “How long?” he asked.

“I got you six months, but that’s it, final offer, last extension.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” Even though their connection was a little static-filled, the surprise in Theresa’s voice was loud and clear. “Just like that you say okay?

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, but I still thought you’d be a harder sell.”

They wrapped the conversation up quickly from there, and Charles was careful to sound more positive than he felt. Six months, if he was his old self, was more than enough time to get a solid book to his publisher. But he wasn’t his old self, and didn’t think he ever would be again. Maureen had been gone three years, yet in some ways it was like she’d passed away yesterday, the grief would hit so fresh and raw. In other ways, however, it was like she’d left a lifetime ago, which, hard as it was, was sort of the truth. Neither his nor Aisha’s lives were the same. They had new existences altogether, as if their time on earth had been divided into separate realities: Life with Mo. Life without her.

He stood up, scooted his chair under his desk and turned off his computer, then grabbed his laptop. He was sick of himself and the endless woe-to-me pool he wallowed in. Even his self-pitying thought about everything he’d worked for dying when Maureen did wasn’t fully honest. Only half of what he worked for and lived for had passed on when she did. He still had their daughter, and who knows, maybe a grandbaby too.

He hit the lights and hefted his bag. Soon, with any luck, he’d be in a better writing space and headspace. For a moment he wondered if he should’ve told Theresa his plan, then shook his head. Where he spent his time wasn’t her business and she’d just worry. Besides, though she’d be skeptical, he could write—or not write—just as easily in the boonies as he could at home.

And if Aisha was intent on setting up a temporary home in Greenridge, wherever that was, with this aunt whoever she was, in the hopes of connecting with her birth mom—who back in the day had seemed level-headed, but now he worried was a callous flake . . . well, he wasn’t going to just abandon her to the wolves and wilds. He’d take up residence in one of the cabins that were “so far beyond cool that he couldn’t possibly imagine how cool they were,” to quote Aisha, and support her in whatever ways he could. She was the only family he had left, and if anything came between them, damaged their relationship, or hurt her, it would be over his dead body.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

Get Hooked today!

Amazon ~ Kobo ~ iTunes ~ Barnes & Noble

Paperbacks available at Misty River Books in Terrace, Eddie’s News in Prince Rupert, online pretty much everywhere :), and libraries across northern BC.

Have a fantastic weekend! I hope it’s filled with outdoor fun, lots of laughter with good friends or family, and great reads. (All things I’m shooting for today too! :D)

Cora Seton Facebook Party – woot, woot!

In a super fun twist of fate and coincidence, my good friend and fellow author–the fabulous storyteller extraordinaire Cora Seton–and I both ended up launching new books yesterday. Happy belated book birthday to us!

22f43ff1-9e0a-4f61-8b82-b399013512f3-1Hooked by Ev Bishop

Buy them on Amazon: The Airman’s E-mail Order Bride ~ Hooked

On Kobo: The Airman’s E-mail Order Bride ~ Hooked

On B & N  ~The Airman’s E-mail Order Bride ~ Hooked

On iTunes ~ The Airman’s E-mail Order Bride ~ Hooked

To celebrate her Airman, Cora’s throwing a Facebook party and we’re all invited to attend! There will be tons of door prizes and free books, great chat with nine guest authors–Amity Lassiter, Sharon Hamilton, Kimberley Troutte, Jennifer Lowery, Anne Marsh, Lynn Raye Harris, Zoe York, and Elle James–and miscellaneous fun and games. Please come and join in the fun. Just click this link, then show up. :)  I’ll be in and out of the party room all day, and I’ll be co-hosting a special slot 1:00 – 1:30 PST.  Hope to see you there!

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It’s here! Hooked by Ev Bishop (River’s Sigh B & B #2)

EvBishop_Hooked_200pxDear Readers,

Yay and finally! Hooked, River’s Sigh B & B #2, is ready for your reading delight. :) Please join me in the adventure, and watch for little celebrations all week. Happy reading! I hope you get hooked on Hooked.

Buy Hooked, River’s Sigh B & B #2, today:

Amazon ~ Kobo ~ iBooks ~ Page Foundry ~

It will be available for Nook at Barnes & Noble soon and is up at a few other online venders as well. Paperbacks are available through various online distributors–and watch for signed copies at Misty River Books in Terrace and Eddie’s News in Prince Rupert. Hooray!

Sign up for my newsletter to receive the latest on upcoming books, contests, and miscellaneous tidbits and occasional free content.

Hooked by Ev Bishop

Knocked around by life—and then knocked up by a man she won’t speak of—Sam Kendall gives her baby for adoption.

Envisioning herself a lone cowboy, she avoids any relationships that might risk her heart or cause pain. There’s wonderful fun to be had if you don’t fall prey to the ludicrous notion of true love!

Lately, however, Sam is niggled by doubts. She’s not as content as she was. Plus her daughter Aisha has tracked her down—seventeen-years-old and pregnant. Despite misgivings, Sam checks into River’s Sigh Bed-and-Breakfast to meet her.

Then widower Charles Bailey, Aisha’s adoptive father, shows up, and Sam can’t control her outrage. What was her sacrifice for? She could’ve raised the kid to follow her stupid footsteps all on her own. And topping it off? Charlie’s a neurotic, stodgy jerk—even if he is ridiculously hot.

The longer Sam stays at River’s Sigh, exploring the wild outdoors—and her own inner desires—the more her terror grows. Maybe Charlie isn’t so terrible after all. Maybe his approach to life is actually refreshing. Maybe all this family stuff is something she could get hooked on.

Yet they’re opposites in every way, and worse: he’s her biological child’s adoptive dad. A romance between them would be too weird, wouldn’t it? Every part of Sam screams play it safe, run.

But what if, in spurning Charlie and Aisha, she’s turning her back on everything she never knew she wanted?

4 More Sleeps ’til HOOKED by Ev Bishop launches!

Eeii! I’ve been excited for weeks, but now only four more sleeps ’til Hooked hits the shelves. I can’t wait. I love River’s Sigh B & B (wish I could literally visit it), and the more time I spend with Jo and Callum–and Hooked’s Sam and Charlie–the more I want to spend. I’m so hoping you’ll feel the same way.

So today’s treat: a glimpse at the full cover, back jacket and all. Huge thanks to Kim Killion and her wonderful staff at The Killion Group for the gorgeous work.

EvBishop_Hooked_Full_cover

I have lots of treats planned next week to celebrate the birth of Hooked, River’s Sigh B & B, #2, including a contest, a Facebook party with Cora Seton whose The Airman’s E-mail Order Bride hits shelves June 16th too, and a couple of *secret* things too. I hope you’ll join in the fun.

Wishing you an adventure and story packed weekend,
Ev

p.s. If you haven’t read Wedding Bands (Book 1 in the River’s Sigh B & B series) yet, don’t worry. Hooked totally stands on its own. That said, what are you waiting for? Buy it today. :) Paperbacks are available at the wonderful Misty River Books in Terrace and Eddie’s News in Prince Rupert or online, and in eBook pretty much everywhere.

Bigger Things by Ev Bishop = RONE Award finalist!

2015_03_Chick-Lit-Womens_Fiction_FINI have incredibly exciting news! (Well, exciting to me anyway, lol.) Bigger Things made the second cut for InD’Tale Magazine’s RONE Award in the Women’s Fiction category. Yay! Now it goes to the third and final phase: a judging panal. A huge thanks to each of you who read Bigger Things and voted for me. I appreciate both very much. Should I win, you bet I’ll let you know . . . and even if it goes no further now, I’m honored to have made it this far. :)

And in the meantime, if there’s someone in your life you think would enjoy Bigger Things, please let them know it exists. Word of mouth is a wonderful thing and I’m beyond grateful (kind of dizzy and thrilled, actually!) when kind people recommend my stories.

Wishing you a wonderful weekend, filled with sunshine, time in the dirt, laughter with friends and a good book.

:) Ev

rsz_biggerthings_evbishoppromoadAvailable online at:

Chapters – eBook AND paperback

Kobo – eBook

Page Foundry – eBook

Smashwords – eBook

Amazon.com – eBook AND paperback

Amazon.ca – eBook AND paperback

Amazon.co.uk – eBook AND paperback

Barnes & Noble (Nook)
– eBook AND paperback

iTunes/iBook
– eBook

Within all this darkness, there is hope?

A good friend of mine, J.H. Moncrieff, has exciting news this month—her novella The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave just came out through Samhain Publishing as part of their Childhood Fears Series.

I almost postponed blogging about it, however, because of bitter, terrible news. My brain tries to skirt it. I feel sick to the point of nausea and wanting to vomit when my mind presses even lightly on the tiniest shards of it. I can’t imagine—and I can. And I hate it and would do anything to change it. Would trade my limbs, my life, if I could. There are types of pain that the brain doesn’t know how to process.

So why on earth post a blurb promoting a horror story right now of all times? Well, for the same reason I write and read. Good stories delve into those most tender parts of the human psyche—parts that, to me at least, seem inexorably linked: what we love and what we fear. When we’re suffering (and we all do at various times in various ways), they offer a much-needed escape—but even more so, they acknowledge and spend time mucking about in the things that hurt us most and can be a form of catharsis.

In an English Lit course once, studying Ann-Marie MacDonald’s amazing but brutal Fall On Your Knees, one of the students—a woman who was so quiet I had literally never heard her voice until that day—spoke up when a bunch of other students were whining and griping about some of the novel’s content, how “dark” it was, and how they shouldn’t “have” to read it. The prof was understandably disheartened by their attitude and said something like, “So why do you think there might be value or a point in reading stories that are hard emotionally?”

The quiet woman held up her hand and even the professor’s face registered surprise. “Yes?” she asked.

“For me . . . ” The woman spoke with a slight accent and turned red the minute she opened her mouth. “When I read stories of what other people have survived through, it makes me think I can survive too.”

Then she dropped her head, picked up her pen and busied herself writing something down. The whole class was stunned silent for a moment.

And her words have stayed with me because she summed up, so concisely, one the reasons I have always read so voraciously. It makes me think I can survive. And it gives me a bruised and bleeding hope that people I love can too.

I’m sorry that my introduction to J.H. Moncrieff isn’t cheerier—but I do sincerely hope you’ll pick up her novella, whether it’s just for a thrill and escape, or whether you have something you wish to forget for a bit, or even if you, like me, have your own demons you’re wrestling with right now.

In a weird coincidence with my thinking about why I write and read, when I was chatting with Holli earlier this month about her book, I asked her if she’d care to share what draws her to horror as a reader and a writer. Here are her thoughts.

Once I learned to read, I couldn’t stop. I was a veritable book addict, and pretty soon I’d worked my way through the children’s section at my local library.

My mom was a reader as well, and her collection kept me going. I loved it all—racy Sidney Sheldon mysteries, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Rosemary’s Baby, even her Jackie Collins bodice rippers. I read anything I could get my hands on, and one thing I’ll say for my mom—she never censored what I read.

In spite of the presence of Rosemary’s Baby on her bookshelves, she claimed to hate horror. It was strange, then, to find a few Stephen King paperbacks among several garbage bags full of books that were hidden under the basement stairs.

I’d always been titillated by scary stories—there was something irresistible about reading books and watching movies that were considered “off limits” for someone my age. Who can resist the forbidden?

Mom claimed not to know where the paperbacks had come from, but as usual, she didn’t care if I read them. So my very first King experience was Different Seasons, and I couldn’t have chosen a better book. Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption…Apt Pupil…The Body. They are still some of the finest stories I’ve ever read.

From that moment on, I was hooked. My first published story was about a vampire who ran around devouring everything (I’d recently learned the word ‘devour’ and loved it.) As an adult, I initially preferred to write mysteries and psychological suspense, but all my novels had one thing in common—they were dark. Very dark. I decided to embrace the darkness.

Done well, horror can make us question our preconceived ideas. It presents the worst-case scenario so we can think about how we’d deal with the same situation. A thrilling horror story will grab us and hypnotize us, forcing us to turn page after page until it’s finished. (I’ve lost many nights of sleep to Stephen King.) And there are no guarantees with this genre—horror writers never promise their readers a happily ever after.

Sadly, there is quite a bit of crap cluttering the genre, and it’s given horror a bad name. But there are writers who grew up reading the masters, who truly love horror, and who are determined to keep elevating the genre. So within all this darkness, there is hope. [Emphasis mine.]

J. H. Moncrieff

J. H. Moncrieff

J.H. Moncrieff loves scaring people with her books, and she blogs about the supernatural, the creepy, and the mysterious on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. In her “spare” time, J.H. travels to exotic locales, advocates for animal rights, and practices Muay Thai kickboxing.

Her newest release is The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave:

Still grieving the untimely death of his dad, ten-year-old Josh Leary is reluctant to accept a well-worn teddy bear from his new stepfather. He soon learns he was right to be wary. Edgar is no ordinary toy, and he doesn’t like being rejected. When Josh banishes him to the closet, terrible things happen.

Desperate to be rid of the bear, Josh engages the help of a friend. As the boys’ efforts rebound on them with horrifying results, Josh is forced to accept the truth — Edgar will always get even.

J.H. Moncrieff: Website | Twitter | Facebook
The Bear Who Wouldn’t Leave: Amazon | Samhain | Kobo | B&N | Trailer