Good For What Ails Me

“Spring Always Arrives” – Photo by Ev Bishop

Sometimes I romanticize the writing life. (Well, pretty much every aspect of life actually, but I’ll just focus on the writing aspects for now.) And while normally I feel this is a lovely quality, it has a downside. It can make me feel, when writing sessions are more tedious than magical, that maybe it’s because of some inherent flaw in me. Maybe I’m an impostor. A fraud.

I want “perfect” writing days:

Sessions where every penned nuance and detail is rife with significance.

Times with the texture and quality of embossed leather or whiskey soaked velvet (though if I think about it, I’m not really sure how either of those would describe a day at all).

Sprees filled with rambling, writerly chats, obscure poems found wedged between the floor boards in a bedroom of a long vacant house (again, a detail that seems sort of impossible to randomly happen upon when my butt is planted in my office chair, but don’t over think things: this is a perfect day, people!), and wine drank from pewter goblets.

Weather that’s all sunrise, sunset, or storm. Lavender-grey sky. Charcoal-soot clouds. Pounding rain that bends the trees and echoes my heart.

Hours when time pauses and my prose falls effortlessly upon the page, as moving and powerful as a wind that shakes leaves, bends boughs, and changes the season.

I want to be the poet in the turret, the crazy longhaired maiden-crone in the attic (but one whose family doesn’t disown her!).

So, although I often find that the reality of being a writer is pretty great, by comparison to the stuff of my daydream writer life, it’s sometimes a little disappointing. Or a lot, depending on the day. I’m continually surprised that writing is actually work—sometimes really hard work. It’s something I have to schedule in. It rarely just happens. And often it’s painful, like I’m a surgeon charged with the task of removing my own organs without anaesthetic and spreading them around for the world to see. But worse than the pain is the fear.

The fear that I actually have nothing to say. That perhaps the story “The Emperor’s New Clothes” was written with me in mind (“Aren’t they beautiful?” “Isn’t what beautiful? There’s nothing there.”) Fear that I am mediocre at best. Fear that people will see me naked and laugh, or worse, avert their eyes, turn away—ashamed, unable to relate, embarrassed for me. And even more fear: that I will never be read or connected with at all. I will send parts of myself into the void and be met with . . . silence.

How silly I am to worry about such things hit me afresh yesterday.

I’d fled my computer for a break to work in the yard. The air had a quality that, I don’t know, just made me want to laugh. Sweet and fresh, yet here and there, tinged with the earthy scent of dead plants, no longer frozen, freed to rot. The fecund smell of approaching spring is so ancient and independent of human involvement that it always seems almost otherworldly to me—yet also somehow makes me feel like every dream is possible.

The sun was trying to warm the winter-cold earth, and a brisk breeze carried an invigorating lesson: New life erupts from death. Growth springs forth from decay and rot and . . . well, shit.

Creation can be painful—just listen to my chickens. Yet, day in and day out, they each lay an egg—and though they complain bitterly during the process, they squawk equally proudly about the results of their labour. And as inglorious and common as laying an egg every day may be to some, each speckled brown oval is its own miracle too.

Does the chicken question whether it can lay an egg, or if it can, will it be a good enough egg, or if its worthy of even attempting to lay an egg in the first place? I’m not a chicken whisperer, but I don’t think so. Hens definitely seem to have more of an “I’m a chicken, dammit. Of course I lay eggs. Get over yourself and get cracking” attitude. Can I do any less or be any less pleased with my output?

And the chickens lay regardless of the day, temperature, or individual mood—mild and balmy, or bitter and hideous. And likewise, my hedge puts out buds when it’s supposed to, despite the wind, the danger of frost. . . . It seems to like it when I fuss, but it does its thing whether I’m there or not.

I have perfect dreamy writing days occasionally, and they’re amazing. I mean who doesn’t love to feel their work is going well, that they’ve connected with something deep within themselves, and enjoyed the process? Who doesn’t revel in a bit of romance?

I wonder though—perhaps ironically—if my writing is better on the days it feels like organ-extraction? Or if maybe the revolutions between between angst and toil and ecstasy and pleasure are all necessary? Maybe writing is like the rest of life, a continual shift of seasons. Some more enjoyable than others, perhaps, but all crucial, all inevitable. And maybe it’s just something I shouldn’t think about too much—just enjoy and accept (with a little squawking occasionally!).

A New Year’s Pondering

“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

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

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!

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?

When 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

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

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! )

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

~Ev

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