Author: Ev Bishop

A New Year’s Pondering

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"Mmmm" - Photo by Ramona Higginson

“Mmmm” – Photo by Ramona Higginson

I was playing on the Internet, avoiding my traditional January look-back/look-ahead (a time I set aside, usually with tea and a journal, to contemplate what I’ve accomplished the past year and make notes about what I’d like to get done in the new one), when I came across the following quote from Ellen Goodman: “We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives . . . not looking for flaws, but for potential.”


It struck me as being both very true and very good advice. My head is usually full of details about things I don’t like about myself and want to change, areas I see myself falling down in that I want to shore up, and aspects of my relationships that need work. And this year (today!) is no different.

If one were to read any or all of my journals (And boy, I pity the poor fool who ever does—how boring and myopic my ramblings are!), he or she would see I’ve been dealing with the same stuff—the same questions, the same passions, the same laments, etc.—my whole life.

I do grow and change (or at least I hope I do!), but no matter what season a tree is in, it is still a tree, and I—much to my frustration at times—am always me.

For almost as long as I can remember, many of my primary goals, plans, and answer seeking have somehow centered around one or more—or some combination of—the following:

Faith. Is there a God? I believe, 100%, unequivocally, yes. What does He want/expect from us? How should I live? That gets trickier and sets the stage for a lot of my quandaries and questions.

Relationships. Why can’t I be all that I want to be for my friends and family—and why can’t they always be what I want/need them to be?

Pain. Personal, but also in the world at large.

My weight. I hate that honesty demands I mention it here. I want to be done having weight/body issues. I have wanted that since I was eleven. I’ll keep you posted if it ever actually comes to pass.

Writing. My grand passion—and the best way of dealing with life I’ve ever found. I always have tons of writing-related hopes and goals.

The point I’m getting to? Well, I’m not exactly sure. Part of me wants to write a ream of resolutions in keeping with my list of obsessions. The other part of me wants to pretend I’ve outgrown my old patterns of constant searching and questions, of discontent and striving.

But that’s why I like the quote. It doesn’t say we should’ve arrived at a place in our lives where we don’t have questions or see what we want to improve—or that there is some magical phase of life where no improvement is needed. It just says we should also look at the good we’ve already accomplished (or, perhaps, that exists without any help from us) and build on it.

And with those thoughts—and a mug of steaming Earl Grey at my side—I’ve decided to look at the rooms of my life with different eyes this year, and to journal about what I notice. I’ll still give time to plans and things I’d like to change, but I’m also aiming to acknowledge what I’ve already started and record things that hopefully I’m doing right, answers I believe I’ve found, areas that have healed, and ways I may have helped others—and can help further. There’s a lot of potential in 2013!

“A New Year’s Pondering” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, January 23, 2013 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.”

A Theme of Value

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The following was originally posted on my website September 13, 2012 (before it was hacked), but as I was going through material I managed to save, these thoughts still resonated. If you’ve read them before, I hope you don’t mind my re-sharing.

"In the Distance" - Photo by Ev Bishop

“In the Distance” – Photo by Ev Bishop

On holidays this year, I met up with Angela Dorsey and Barb Cameron (wonderful friends who also happen to be excellent fellow BC writers) for a sushi feast, a bookstore binge, and lots and lots of writerly talk. (Such a needed refuelling and refreshing!)

At one point I asked them why they write. I guess I was looking for some grand eureka. I also asked if there were topics and/or subject matter they personally considered taboo or off limits.

The conversation zipped all over the place in a myriad of fascinating (to me, anyway) directions and off shoots. One comment, made by Angela, particularly struck me: everything she writes must explore something that (for her) is a theme of value.

Other than that, she has no rules regarding things she will or will not write about, or how a theme is explored in terms of language used, situations depicted, etc.

She went on to explain modestly, maybe even a little self-consciously, that by saying that she doesn’t mean every story she writes has some big deep theme (though I’d argue most her stories do). A focus can be as simple (or complex!) as looking for home or valuing friendship.

Work must explore a theme of value. The idea, to me, is profound. Is, perhaps, the Eureka I was looking for when I ventured into my forest of questions.

I have long pondered why some novels’ scenes on difficult subject matters, for example, rape—feel somehow wrong or almost sensationalist, while others on the same topics, perhaps even more graphic in their detail, etc., feel somehow right and important to the story and to your reading/relating to it—even while they’re deeply disturbing or unsettling or rage-invoking or whatever.

In my own work, I’ve worried about crossing the line between honestly exploring and rendering what it’s like to be human and being gratuitous.

My worry was foundless. Theme dictates content. If one’s exploring a theme of value—which resonated with me as something I do, too—events in story, regardless of how graphic, disturbing or sexy they may be, will not feel gratuitous. The work’s objective prevents it.

Thoughts? 🙂

Happy New Year!

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Photo by Ev Bishop

Photo by Ev Bishop

“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day.”
~ Edith Lovejoy Pierce

. . . Is the above a slightly corny quote or a warm, inspiring one? The latter, I think, for me. 🙂

Anyway I hope this day—the second day of the year 2013!—finds you more than well: finds you content.

My plans for the evening involve homemade soup, curling up on the couch with a blanket and a book (and probably sneaking in some “Heartland,” too–I’m addicted to the series!), and some daydreaming about plans and hopes for the upcoming months. Plus tea. Probably a lot of it as I feel a bit sniffily.

So yes, all in all, it’s looking like a night filled with some of my favourite things. Yay!

I wish you a year full of similar small, yet wonderful things and lots of fun discoveries and inspiring moments.

And thank you for reading my blog. I appreciate it very much.

🙂 Ev

A Quiet Christmas?

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Cozy Ginger Bread HomeWhen I was a little kid, Christmas was busy, like, I think, Christmas tends to be for many people. I had a huge extended family that lived nearby—or nearby enough that we could go visit, but not so close that it was a no prep necessary jaunt.

We’d load up whatever vehicle my dad was smitten with at the time with boxes of food to contribute to the feasting, wrapped presents and snow clothes—and changes of clothes—and head down the highway, a fairytale drive of frozen white and blue, to Hazelton and Smithers.

Both sets of grandparents lived on big, out of the way farms, and I can’t remember green Christmases in either place, ever. We’d drive up, inevitably once night had fallen, and at either property, the effect was the same: magic. The long winding road that for the trip had seemed a snowy fantasy-realm—was suddenly transformed by warm yellow lights glowing in the darkness, brightening the snow, beckoning us in cheerily.

And when I was little, Christmas was loud.

From the moment we were out of the truck and the door of the house was thrown open and a din of voices greeted us, the noise never ceased ‘til we left.

And I adored it. I come from a long lineage of arguers, game players, big eaters, big talkers and big jokers. Our gatherings were, at least to me, the epitome of festive. Us kids would, literally, scream ourselves hoarse playing games like Pit and Risk.

I remember the year it changed—or perhaps “changed” is too strong; “developed” is better. My idea of an ideal Christmas developed a quieter side.

I was eleven or twelve and my Grandma Higginson, who owned a floral shop for many years, sent me a pre-Christmas present—a miniature Christmas tree that stood about 2 feet tall and was factory strung with tiny bright multi-coloured lights that twinkled.

I was entering an era (er . . . or, short-lived phase) where I kept my bedroom immaculately tidy, and I don’t think I can adequately convey the pleasure I derived from decorating my room with that little tree. I placed it on an antique wooden desk I used for writing letters and the like (I really haven’t changed that much in 28 years!), and bought little gifts with my babysitting money, which I wrapped and placed beneath the tree. I purchased my first Christmas album (Amy Grant’s cleverly titled “A Christmas Album”—still one of my all-time favourite carol collections).

Thus started my own small tradition. Playing games, eating, laughing and massacring carols were still some of my favourite ways to ring in Christmas—but I decided I should spend time in quiet contemplation, too. I’d hide out in my room after everyone else had gone to bed or was eating yet again, with eggnog and a journal, planning out my new year in advance.

And it’s a tradition I’ve kept. My family is still loud—though not nearly so big as it used to be—and we all love to eat, argue, and play games into the wee hours, but I still sneak away—or stay up for a bit after the others have gone to bed—to dream by the tree and jot down thoughts and plans by the soft twinkling glow of the sparkling Christmas tree.

I’d thought I wasn’t feeling into Christmas this year, and who knows, maybe a noisy one won’t have much appeal, but I am looking forward to the quiet—Ah, who am I kidding? I’ve already told one of my brothers to bring his Just Dance games for the Wii and that him and me, plus siblings, spouses, nieces and nephews will have a dance off party.

So . . . it will be loud and crazy and my family and I will miss the people we miss and celebrate the ones we’re with—but I’ll seek out my quiet corner eventually, to think and pray and just to be. I hope you find a peaceful spot to be this holiday, too.

Merry Christmas!


“Quiet Christmas” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, December 19, 2012 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.”

November’s River

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A friend wrote me a note the other day, part of which read, “ . . . It only reminded me that I used to write and that I don’t anymore and that is only one thing in a long list that I have lost along the way.”

Her words came back to me this Saturday as I considered the stark landscape of the depleted Skeena beneath the old bridge. Rocks, bare. Trees—no, trunks. Severed. Separated. Set apart. Stripped of bark and branch and leaf. Rootless. They looked like ivory bones on the earth’s silty guts.

She needs to get back to the creative things she let go of, I thought. She needs to.

Fall is an introspective season. Perhaps it’s because the weather forces a physical slow down and a turn to inward contemplation. Or perhaps it’s more primal: as nature goes dormant or dies, thoughts tune to the occurrence of the same in other parts of our lives. Or maybe, for me, it’s more personal. My parents both passed away in October, and fall seems indelibly linked to my own mortality. Whatever the reason, this time of year I find myself thinking about how I live and what I put my energy into.

I had a hard week. Month. Year. If it wasn’t for my writing, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Sounds melodramatic—and maybe it is, but I don’t care. I look at our world, at the things that go on in it, and I don’t know how—without music, without art, without poetry and stories—people stay sane.

Most people loved some creative pursuit, I hate to say it, when they were young. What is it about adult life that makes so many of us forsake the things we enjoy most? Sometimes it’s because dreams and desires honestly change, but a lot of time (maybe even most of the time) we give up those passions, those unique activities that make us us, out of fear, out of misplaced feelings of obligation, out of pressure from people who don’t get it (and don’t get us even if they love us).

I’ve long battled feeling selfish. I spend hours by myself—and I need more than I get. I don’t keep a tidy house. I tune my family out sometimes. (I also love them sincerely and passionately, and try really hard to know them, respect them and give them space to be who they need to be, etc.—though that’s a whole other column). I can be distracted—and unapologetically disinterested in some things, like small talk.

Yet my writing has made me a better wife, mom, person. I think. I hope. It is good for people to pursue their passions—and as a parent it’s critical. We have to model what we value: thoughtfulness, a pursuit of things with intrinsic value—things with cultural, emotional, mental, or spiritual significance. Society will do all it can to sway our children (and us!) to a life of materialism, vapid pleasures, and looks-based self-worth. We need to counteract that influence the best we can, and I think the best way to do that is to show the rightness of thinking, learning, and expressing.

Letting ourselves sing, play an instrument, carve, write, garden, fish, quilt, sew, work in a shop—the list could go on and on—is crucial in so many ways. It helps us deal with stress, with sadness, with anger. It reminds us that joy can co-exist with sadness, beauty can survive hard times, and one can find peace even amidst inner storms.

The Skeena is lonely in November, but there’s beauty in her sharp grey-on-black-on-white lines and something inspiring in her resolute journey onward. If you have regrets about things undone or neglected, make this the year you take up that dropped course, cause, art, or hobby. Live as you feel you’re supposed to. That’s the thing about things that get lost along the way. They can be stumbled upon later. Found. Reclaimed.

This piece was originally published in the Terrace Standard, November 21, 2012 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to share here (normally it would’ve been archived at evbishop.com, but that’s another story as you may know!). “November’s River” is not your typical December reading, but ah, well . . . We all experience November rivers at some time or another. I’ll post something lighter and Christmassy when I’m . . . feeling lighter and more Christmassy. 🙂

The Present by Toni Sheridan

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You may or may not have seen the post on evbishop.com where I shared my excitement about having sold my first story to be published under a pen name . . . UNFORTUNATELY I can’t link to said news because my website is still down . FORTUNATELY the hacking-jerks can’t corrupt my happy feelings re: so much good news this month. 🙂

In addition to my short story “The Picture Book” being published by Every Day Fiction magazine last week, I was just notified that The Present by Toni Sheridan has hit the virtual shelves. As I’m quite close to Toni (ahahaahahaha!) I am thrilled for her news. If you’re looking for a fun, romantic read (that inspires warm cozy feelings and maybe some thought, too) to get you in the Christmas spirit, I’d love for you to read it.

Well, take that hackers! (I don’t know . . . Maybe I should keep my website down permanently. It seems to bring good news for my writing life! :D)

Hope you’re having a happy reading/writing week, too.

~Ev

p.s. Check out THE PRESENT’S cover. I love it!

“The Picture Book” by Ev Bishop

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You may have read my moving note here. Well, disregard it. I’m baaaa-acck.

My lovely website (Let me praise it, please. I need to in memorial) got hacked and as I’m the middle of Nanowrimo, I don’t have time or mental energy to spend hours fixing it right now. But I have exciting news I want to share, so what better place than here?

I’ve talked about Every Day Fiction Magazine before, and I’m thrilled to announce that they have published another one of my stories: “The Picture Book.”

If you, like me, love short stories, please hop over and read it—and comment, rate it, and share it if so inclined. Enjoy. 🙂

Happy writing and reading to you this week—and if you have a website, go and make sure it’s safer than mine was!

Moving Day . . .

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As much as I adore *Wordpress (and I do, I really do! :D), I’ve decided to act on a long contemplated decision: I am moving my blog, Write Here, Write Now, to my main website evbishop.com.

It’s labelled, cleverly, “Blog” in the menu bar, or you can just click and find it here.

Please follow me over there because I’ll really miss you if you don’t. There’s a sticky post at the top of the page where you can sign up to subscribe to Write Here, Write Now by e-mail . . . or (top corner of screen) you can set it up as a RSS feed to wherever you best like to read the blogs you follow.

I won’t be updating this site anymore, but I’ll leave it active for awhile so that if you don’t happen by super regularly, you’ll hopefully still find me.

Thanks!

Happy reading, writing, and whatevering,
🙂 Ev

p.s. The whole of this blog has been exported to its new home already, and if you’re thinking of a similar amalgamation of your blog and website, but are worried because it sounds difficult, let me put you at ease. It’s really easy! You should totally do it. Think of all the time you’ll save (that you can dedicate to writing!) by only maintaining one website.

*Fortunately my blog is CMC WordPress template, so I won’t be in withdrawal or anything.

You work where?

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Photo by epSos.de on flickr

So a friend of mine just shared the incredibly exciting fact that she’s made $400 this year from her short fiction. Yes, that’s right, short stories.

If you’re an author, you’re jumping up and down because you know how difficult that is. She published short fiction in paying markets. Multiple stories. Multiple paying markets.

If you’re not a writer, you’re thinking $400 bucks? She’d better not quit her day job. And don’t worry (and thanks for caring :)), she hasn’t.

She experienced this reaction firsthand a few days ago when she met up with a friend she hadn’t seen in awhile.

“How’s the writing going?” the friend asked.

Very excitedly, my friend replied, “Great! And guess what? I made $400 last year selling short stories.”

Her gleeful announcement was met with something weak like, “Oh . . . That’s . . . really good,” and an awkward silence ’til the subject changed.

It’s hard to explain to someone that $400 can be a huge symbol. That it can represent all the time and labour that someone else’s 40K does.

And I had a similar moment this week. Someone whom I’ve never met came into the office where I work and recognized me because of my Just a Thought column that I write for the Terrace Standard.

“You work here?” she asked in a tone that suggested she’d just discovered I did lice checks for a living or something. “But you write.”

“Well, I do, yes, but I also work part-time to supplement my income,” I admitted, trying not to feel like the failure it felt like she was implying I was because I can’t subsist on my art.

“Well . . .” She seemed genuinely lost for words, even a little put out. “Well, I’d just have thought you’d make enough from your column to get by.”

??? !!! ??? !!!

(Sometimes excessive punctuation is all my brain generates as a response. Unfortunately, other people can’t see the string of type running in my head, so there’s often an uncomfortable pause as I sort myself out and try to find words.)

I was flattered. She thought my column was worthy of pay that would support me all month! I was also confused. Had she actually heard of a columnist who could get by solely on the income generated by their column? I felt like asking her to repeat her comment into a voice recorder, so I could play it for my editor. . . . 😀

As I’ve said before, I write for a myriad of reasons and none of the primary ones centre around money. Yes, I’d like to make a living purely from my words alone someday (because then I’d have even more time to write!), but if that day never comes, I’ll still be working my day job and I’ll still be writing.

It makes me sad that financial compensation for a job well done is the language our culture understands best. “Success” is too often equated with a dollar amount.

On far more than one occasion I’ve been asked, “Why don’t you just sell a novel? Then you’ll be rich.” (Just. You can tell that comment is not from fellow writers!)

Selling a novel is seen by most—even, yikes, by some aspiring novelist—as akin to winning a lottery. It’s those writers I feel badly for. What will sustain them when they realize that even when their stories start selling, it’s likely they won’t be receiving Stephen King-esque advances and royalties?

All of society is poorer when it buys into the idea that only activities that make money are worth pursuing. It’s just not a point-of-view I agree with AT ALL. And if, in saying so, I’ve jinxed myself? Well, I’m okay with that. I’ll still be writing. And, yes, working there.

Head Space

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“Through a glass…” Copyright Ev Bishop 2012

I spent a big part of last weekend carousing through local artists’ studios. (Okay, okay, I wasn’t exactly carousing, but I was having a lot of fun.)

Quite a few of the studios, on top of being enviable workplaces, were works of art—beautifully designed, every detail and colour, texture and nuance revealing much about the artist they home.

Other studios, no less wonderful and inspiring, were more about the pure work of creating: no surface or wall or floor too special for accidental paint spatter or clay dust. Mess, glorious mess, abounded in some (to my huge comfort as I like to work in a clutter, too).

Still others were more impromptu—one amazing painter worked in a makeshift aquarium for lack of a better word, a table in the middle of a parking lot downtown with a plastic “cage” around it, so the spray paint he works with wouldn’t go awry.

In all, the evidence, thrill and reward of labour was everywhere.

I came away from the two days inspired to work, work, work, more in love with (and grateful for) my own little office than ever, and struck by an intriguing (to me) contrast between the artist spaces I visited and my own writing haven.

Almost without exception the artist studios were filled with light. Huge windows let the world in, bringing what the outside closer to view, closer in. One studio (Noreen Spence’s!) is shaped like a hexagon and juts from the side of her home like a turret. It is floor to ceiling windows on four or five sides; being in it is like being suspended in air or sitting in a tree watching the world around you.

My writing space is a nook in the heart of my house, built intentionally into a corner, with no windows to distract me as I work at bringing what is deeply inside out. If Noreen’s space is an open-branched tree, mine is a small, brightly lit cave. Both are lovely, if very different in the head space they suggest for our individual creative processes—and those differences fascinated me.

If you get a chance to visit local artists’ workplaces, I really recommend it—great fun, but also affirming and encouraging.