Jaded Muse

Eclectic, nostalgic, and sometimes otherworldly. A dreamer always.

[andrew-reeves]

Distracted at work.  The view does(n’t) help. 

[andrew-reeves]

Sundays are for window shopping and rain clouds, the last pages of a good novel, daydreaming.  Mine are usually filled with a particularly acute anxiety about the coming week.  Did I get it all done?  Did I miss anything?  I often think of Sundays as the armpit of the weekend, a time for scrubbing and laundry, dishwashing.

Every now and then I rebel against the screaming call to duty waking me up at the ass crack of dawn to make breakfast and start the day. I lay in bed a little longer, luxuriate over the second (and third) cup of coffee and skim the pages of a too long abandoned lit mag.  

Today (thank the gods) is one of those days.

[andrew-reeves]

Visited an old favorite hideout of mine this weekend. Much has changed since I was last here. Most good. Some bad. No regrets.

[andrew-reeves]

In the morning he woke among the peaks incredibly white against the muted sky. There is something greater than the life of the cities, greater than money and possessions; there is a manhood that can never be taken away. For this, one gives everything.

James Salter, Solo Faces

[andrew-reeves]

Spicing up the work day a little...

[andrew-reeves]

“Not only had she…

[andrew-reeves]

Your energy is out…

[andrew-reeves]

Respect the page. It's all you've got.

Margaret Atwood

[andrew-reeves]

When a man in a melancholy mood is left teta-a-tete with the sea, or any landscape which seems to him grandiose, there is always, for some reason, mixed with melancholy, a conviction that he will live and die in obscurity, and he reflectively snatches up a pencil and hastens to write his name on the first thing that comes handy.

Anton Chekhov

[andrew-reeves]

I interviewed Najee this afternoon for Smooth Jazz Magazine. His new CD 'The Morning After  - A Musical Love Journey' oozes sexy.  

Stay tuned for the interview article coming soon.

[andrew-reeves]

A successful person is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown at them."

David Brinkley

[manofprose]

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

Anais Nin (via man-of-prose)

Always reach, always strive, always work for more, for better. Never settle for where you are.  You're right Anais, it is a kind of death. 

[andrew-reeves]

Expectation is the root of all heartache.

William Shakespeare

[andrew-reeves]

A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.

Stephen King

[andrew-reeves]

A friend sent this to cheer up my Friday. I needed the laugh.

[andrew-reeves]

Watch your step.

[andrew-reeves]

On The Writing vs. Non-Writing Self

My writing and non-writing selves are constantly at war. My non-writing self is focused primarily on survival.  He has children to feed, rent to pay, a job.  He spends time with his loved ones and helps keep their lives in order. This 'self' says "maybe later, I'll write."  My writing self never comes out to play much.  He is a deep-thinker. He sits day-dreaming about his characters. He paces the floor wondering if his words are worth anything. He agonizes over sentence structure and story arc. There are scraps of paper with his handwriting thrown about the floor of his apartment. He is disorganized, sloppy, unkempt at times. He does not eat until four in the afternoon on a Sunday. He binges on coffee and cigarettes.  He makes a royal mess of things. He writes from a dark place.  Still, he wishes to purge himself of the stories. He has no choice but to write. But he is constantly assaulted by the non-writer self. It must exist so he can.

These selves are opposing forces. Most days, I look at the world through the eyes of the non-writer. Those eyes are cynical.  They do not pause to consider minutia as the fabric of stories.  He hides behind an iTunes playlist and noise canceling headphones.  He does not catch snippets of conversation or notice the hues of light on the facade of a hotel he passes each day on the train to work.  He listens to heavy metal and tries to blend in.  He does not dream.

My writing self is fragile and therefore difficult to conjure. He spends evenings in front of his computer wearing boxer shorts and an old t-shirt. He is not concerned with his audience.  He writes for himself, to understand his world and the people in it.  He carries a notebook to the park and writes what touches him. He is fascinated by simple things.

His heart is an ocean of secrets, a space for fragile things.