“Upon the Heath”
The above is my most recent painting. As this post, it is titled, “Upon the Heath.” oil on canvas.
I am not totally in love with this painting. In fact in some key ways it is one of if not my least favorite of all my paintings.
Yet in other ways, it has done something for me that most of the other painting have not done; it has taught me a bit of a lesson.
Believe it or not, this painting started out as an icy landscape. My goal was to do a study in shades of blue, with some mountains in the background, some water, snow and ice. I’ve had the idea in my head for a while now, and last night I had the time.
Almost right away I made an error. Usually I just incorporate the error into the painting, or paint around it in such a way that it’s hidden by the time I’m done. That’s not what i did this time.
Instead, I tried to correct my error. I tried to change the shape of what I had so far to more closely resemble that which I had in my head. I made it worse. And did so again. And again.
Before I knew it, I’d spent over an hour mixing a million and one different tints and hues, using different brushes, and more than once scraping off entire sections of the painting with a paint knife.
I’d never done that before, scrape off what I’d already put on. Yet with this canvass I did. Over and over again. Even tried to make the scraping part of what I was doing, but nothing was happening. Nothing.
A hill appeared, and vanished under more paint and thinner. A cloud. More clouds. More brushes more paint. Mess multiplying, vision for the piece collapsing.
“Enough,” I finally said, annoyed and exhausted by this corruption of my painting process. I’d burn the damn thing in the backyard if I had to, but I was not going to continue in desperation to bring about something I couldn’t bring about.
I turn the canvas on it’s side. I at last envisioned something approaching a concept. A tree, or plant, clinging to life, on a strange, but green and brown landscape. Not a blue in sight.
I did throw in some white at last, which makes for a ghostly effect. Plus no other colors would show up in the thick ultra-wet canvas. I also went from planning a somewhat realistic painting to a far more impressionistic approach. Near the end I thought of a heath, and the line “Upon the heath,” from the first scene in Macbeth. I knew I would call it that, and consider the landscape to represent a heath.
In the last few moments I threw in those little comets of color you see mostly on the right side. I figured the would represent magic, oddity, perhaps the witches from the above mentioned scene, hard to say. At any rate, it was done.
All I could think of was how much blue and white paint I had wasted trying to paint something that I didn’t even accomplish. That annoyed me the rest of the night.
As did the fact that the process was not the usual creative enjoyable, mostly relaxing experience I have had while oil painting. Not a feeling I want to repeat when going back to the easel. (Which I may not let myself do for a while, because of all the waste.)
Not until this morning when I was journaling some thoughts did it occur to me that because of what I titled it, and what i had gone through to produce the painting, this work held the lesson I mentioned.
I tried to be too precise. I was far too in love with the image I had in my mind of the icescape, that I kept trying to force that into existence after every error. Instead of letting the painting take me to a place I could work with and enjoy, riding a wave of amateur artist enjoyment, I was insisting on specifics way beyond both the nature of the painting and my own abilities. I could have made a choice to be content with what I had, and advanced in time to something greater. But I chose to force it, and caused a great mess in the process.
Sound like a certain Scottish character from literature?
The metaphor isn’t perfect, but like Macbeth I insisted on too much in too little time, and forgot to incorporate the flow if you will. I became single minded, and impatient to create the painting in my head. And it screwed everything up, both on the canvass and in my mind.
Unlike Macbeth, though I made a wrong choice, I was able to later course correct and make a right one. I resigned again to the flow of the painting,allowing myself to just paint what “wanted” to be painted. I did it for the fun of putting oils on canvasses again, and the idea to make the heath came to me. The Heath, where in some ways Macbeth makes his first choice to force the hand of nature, the universe, God. (Depending on how you want to read things.)
Whenever I look at this painting from now on, I will remember to not force things. I will remember that there can be depth and significance to an experience even after through poor choices we have made a shit show of things. I will remember my choices, and unlike Macbeth, leave the heath with most of what I am intact.
Like Prince Malcolm, (who incidentally I played in a production of Macbeth last year) I come away from the experience wiser, more in control, and most importantly, forgiving of myself for mistakes I made.
Title Reveal for Novel 3
As promised, I am revealing the title to my upcoming novel, fresh off of my decision on same late Friday night.
What I have been referring to for over a year merely as Novel 3 will now officially be called…
The Beacons I See
It is the story of a summer in the life of Vanessa, who, along with the other females in her family, and a few others around the world, can see promises made by one person to another. They are manifested on the spot where the promise was made, and appear to her kind as globes of soft, different colored of light. Vanessa refers to them as “beacons.” All except one of them, which she gives a special name, because of its unique properties.
That, however, is not what I’m talking about today.
I’ve been jotting down ideas for titles since at least the start of 2017. Only a handful struck me with any real music or power relevant to the story. I very nearly chose a different title, but at last minute I discovered that a number from a popular Broadway show, (that I have never seen) has the same title. I’d have been on safe legal ground, as one cannot trademark a title, as far as I know. Still, I didn’t want anyone to think of that show when they heard the title of my book, so I went with this one.
It was one of the last titles I came up with on the final short list, so perhaps that’s a good sign.
Major revisions are, as far as I can tell, complete. A few additional passes for proofreading and minor adjustments remain. Then I have to consider if I will be hiring someone to do the cover for the first time, or if I will try it myself. Then there is the whole new approach to promoting a book I need to undertake this time around. So it will be a busy few months, as I hope to release this one in June. (No firm date just yet.)
So there you have it. Title and super-broad plot synopsis. Keep checking back here or on Twitter for updates on this one, as always!
Reach.
If the internet thinks I am going to now stop mentioning my recent free essay collection, it is mistaken. Please take a look, as I think it will bring a smile to your face more than once.
That being said, my stronger attentions have now turned toward my next major project; the as yet untitled, Novel 3. (Though I am close to picking one of the finalist titles.)
I have not chosen a release date yet, though I have one in mind for summer. I have no reason to believe that I won’t make that date, but it’s still too early to be 100% certain of when I will complete it. I’ll announce the date when I choose it here first of course.
I won’t talk much inside baseball, but I will say that I’ve been taking a somewhat different editing/revising approach to this novel than that which I normally employ. It has been more tiring on certain days, but the end goal is the same of course-quality fiction I’m proud to put my name on, and ask people to pay for.
The plan is also for this to be available as ebook and paper form, just as the last novel is. (Also still available.)
As I gain more confidence and skill in indie publishing I will be able to do things quicker, and with fewer obstacles.
This novel isn’t strictly speaking literary fiction. Broadly it’s either fantasy, or perhaps one form of magical realism. Still, I’ve employed a bit more symbolism in these novel than in previous ones, and I’ve been playing with language a bit more. (One reason, though not the only one, that the editing process is a different and more tiring than usual.)
I’ll also be initiating a more complex marketing and promotional plan for this novel than any of my previous works thus far. That is an aspect of indie publishing that I have the most to learn about, I dare say. But that’s why I’ll be investing some money and some more time into different approaches that while new to me still are not impossible for me. (As some common marketing strategies would be for me.)
Not only that, but I’m taking some steps to better promote myself as a person as well. I already dusted off and re-purposed a youtube channel in hopes of using it to not only promote my works, but my “voice” or “brand” of whatever they call it now. Promoting it, not changing everything I am to look like something shinier. We will see how that goes.
I have about 300 followers of this blog, and if you do in fact read these posts on a regular basis, feedback on how I am doing, (and especially a interest in my books) is appreciated. I’ve heard from so few of you over the years…
So, it’s not time for a book launch yet, but time for the launch of an improved approach.
Launch! “Thoughts I Wrote Down…” is Now Live!
The time for even more of my opinions has come. My essay collection, Thoughts I Wrote Down Because I Hate Talking to People is now live at several merchant sites. It will become available in several others in the coming days. Here is a universal link to see if your preferred source for ebooks has it.
As with my last free book, it is not available on Amazon itself at the moment. The reason for this is that to make something free on Amazon, it must remain exclusive for a time to Amazon, and I did not want to take that step with this book. You can, however, find a file of it among the sources that is Kindle friendly, if that is you preference. (Something should be done to make free books easier to place on Amazon, however. That’s getting a bit old.)
I don’t yet know if I will have paperback copies of this published, since by page count it is rather short. I will consider it, however.
Until then, please enjoy my thoughts, ramblings complaints, pleas and ponderings that make up this volume. As always, if you enjoy, leave a review if you please, at your preferred source.
Perspective on Perspective
A week from today, my collection of lie essays, which I have titled, Thoughts I Wrote Down Because I Hate Talking to People will become available for free as an ebook. Though there are some reminiscences in the collection, it isn’t a memoir, per se.
I’ve joked about writing a memoir someday. I tell people that I’m not sure when that someday would be, but it would at least have to be after my life became interesting.
I did write a sort-of memoir once, if you stretch the term to its limit that is. It wasn’t published, and wasn’t intended to be. It relayed the experiences I had being a member of a cast of a play in college.
The play, the first full length production I was ever in, had in many ways been life-changing, or even life-affirming at the time. Not because of the script, (much of which we ourselves wrote) but because of the process. From start to finish it was about a sixth month process of workshopping, writing, editing, rehearsing, fighting and eventually bonding with one another. Or so I thought when it was happening, as people I didn’t like evolved into people I did like through work, through social activity, and through familiarity.
The show, which we took out on the road a few times, brought me the largest, most responsive audience I’ve ever performed in front of. It was because of this production that I not only knew I wanted to keep acting in some way, but also came to realize (so I thought at the time) that I did in fact have the means within me to make positive impressions on the lives of people. I could befriend people. I could, in essence matter to people in the way I wanted to matter. This, perhaps more than the play itself, was the source of the power of the experience. A connection with people who at last seemed connected to a part of me I never was any good at bringing forth.
So moved by and appreciative of the experience was I, that I wanted both to remember it forever, but also gift my thoughts and feelings about it to my cast mates. After all, they helped make it all happen. So the following summer, I spent much of my free time writing a brief but detailed account of my experience in the show, wherein everyone came out looking good, and I confessed my own contributions to some of the early difficulties we went through. Inside jokes and stories we all loved to tell one another were included, as was acknowledgment that the people changed my life for the better.
The memoir, like the production itself, became a labor of love for theatre, for the production, and yes, for the people involved.
Of the six people for whom I in large part wrote this heartfelt memoir, one read it and enjoyed it sincerely. One other read it but didn’t have much to say about it. One read it, said it had it’s moments, but that I hadn’t been totally fair to everyone involved. He said his wife, (also in the show) straight up refused to read it at all, preferring to remember the show “in her own way.” Two others never read it at all, as far as I recall, though they had scattered to the four winds by the time I finished it, and may never have had the chance.
The note from the cast mate on behalf of his wife and himself was the last thing I ever heard from him. Attempts to befriend him or his wife on social media in the years since have been met with silence, and I have long since given up. I still talk to three of the others on Facebook sometimes.
Hurtful. That’s the most direct way to describe it. While everyone experiences something a little differently, I didn’t think that my memoir would cause reactions ranging from indifference to irritation. The bonds I thought that particular group had formed weren’t strong enough to enjoy the memoir for what it was in the end; a gift to all of them, as a means to look back and recall fondly what at the time they seemed just as excited by as I was.
I’m used to people opting right out of my life without explanation. Happens a lot. But their lack of explanation remains one of the more perplexing of them all.
The short, lazy lesson to take from this would be, “my undiagnosed autism at the time made me think everyone was having a great time with each other, but really they were not.” I tell myself that sometimes, but it isn’t totally convincing.
I’ve also theorized it was the memoir, and not the experience that I got wrong. I guess I wasn’t supposed to write a memoir of my own experiences. I suppose that for some reason, certain parties within that once seemingly indivisible group felt embarrassed or threatened by my own account. Even though I said nothing in it I did not say in person, and made no jokes about anyone or anything I did not joke about during the production along with the rest of them, maybe seeing it in writing was the kicker. (Though I told all of them I was writing it ahead of time.)
Perspective, correct or incorrect is a powerful thing. It’s a scary thing. Taking someone else’s perspective of common events presents us with the possibility of less stable ground, potentially challenging our own reality to its core.
Immersing ourselves in someone else’s perspective is scary for a different reason too; it’s intimate. If one presents an honest perspective on an event, a reader must partake in a certain intimacy. Both parties are powerless to truly ruin anyone else’s interpretation of events, but only if the other person possesses fundamental security in who and what they are. Perhaps some of the people I was in the play with were too insecure, are too insecure to not only read my perspective on an event, but to connect with me again long after same.
Or maybe I just pissed them off somehow. I’ll probably never know. I do know that experiences such as what I thought were taking place that half-year are for various reasons cruxes in my adulthood, and it has been no small thing to accept, with the passage of time, that in fact the experience seems to have meant little to most of the others. It no longer haunts me that this is so, but it will always perplex me.
However, I take my own advice on the matter, and conclude ultimately that the surprising and once sad distance some of the others have constructed from those events need not destroy the totality of it all within my memory. For I’m secure in what I experienced. It is what I experienced as me, far more than what I experienced reflected off of any of them that has altered the trajectory of my spiritual life.
And if some of them don’t want to acknowledge that, (or me) anymore, well, I’m afraid they can adopt a new perspective on my ass and pucker up.
Ty Unglebower 