Zachary Reeves-Blurton

Oh. Oops…guess I haven’t been here in a bit. Anyway, we’re up to 343 pages now. Slowly revising, wrapping loose threads, and winding down….in the midst of a billion summer projects.

March update: Seasonal Patterns is up to 234 pages. Less writing, more editing and a couple weeks off to visit family and work on a few other projects means I'm a little behind where I'd like to be, but so it goes.

Pictured: one of those aforementioned little projects.

She’s been hard at work keeping me company in the office this week, so I can’t begrudge sweet Miko a lazy Friday lying in a sunbeam.

February wrap-up:

Part three is called 'Breakup.' I just crossed the 200 page (58,000 words) threshold drafting the final two chapters, Goodbye and Seasonal Patterns.

Next: pulling together 'Snowmelt,' the middle third of the book.

But before that: off to the gym to lift heavy stuff.

Not to toot my own horn too much, but this is three days in a row I've stuck to the recommended serving portion of those Triscuits I keep in the office for stress-eating.

Love those!

I’ve recently discovered dictating notes into my phone is a great way to draft out storyline. I’ve also learned this falls apart when I’m doing cardio in the basement.

My husband thinks I might have ADHD. Just because I went downstairs for a drink, stopped to water a plant and ended up at Home Depot for fertilizer in my fuzzy house slippers doesn't mean --

Okay, he might have a valid point but listen: respect my writing process.

Been in a bulking phase at the gym this month. Which is great because in addition to whispering its familiar refrain that I’m too fat, now my body dysmorphia can simultaneously scream at me that I’m too skinny. Cool.

Anyway…should probably eat some chicken and channel the angst into my writing.

On the other, this is terrifying: now nosy, drama-loving and naturally curious me is probably gonna be shot by a miscreant (only if proven guilty) driving by said residence tomorrow morning to see what kind of neighborhood said miscreant (only if proven guilty) lives in.

On the one hand, the petty, nosy part of me is impressed with their no-privacy-shits-given attitude and their note that *of course* all suspects are innocent until proven otherwise. It’s something passive-aggressive me might do.

"Ugh. You're a piece of shit. I can't look at you right now," I huffed and stalked from the room yesterday.

"You're beautiful and I love you," I murmured today, patting the keyboard.

Just realized my relationship with this book might be every bit as dysfunctional as the relationships it's about.

A snapshot of my writing process:

This morning: ahhhh.....time to sit down with some Enya and a nice cup of coffee and finally polish off chapter five.

Two seconds later: a wild idea for chapter thirty-seven comes crashing in, accompanied by cymbals and a kick-drum.

“Goddamn, you’re a sack of shit and I hate you. I can’t wait to finish this book so everyone else can hate you, too.”

Me, to a character in the novel I’m working on a few minutes ago.

Also: probably good that I choose to create characters, not kids.

Accountability update, January edition:

Cat videos watched: 50,000 (down 25,000)

Pages written of current project: 157 (up 54)

Best book read: @danielkraus.com’s Whalefall

Cookies stress-eaten: 98 (just kidding here…no stress involved

I don’t usually write on weekends, but a peaceful, snowy morning is just too inspiring not to tap out a few pages.

The snow that fell overnight is thick, wet and fluffy: perfect for snowball ambushes. Perhaps sensing this danger, my husband shook his head ‘naw, I’m good’ when asked if he wanted to help me shovel the driveway. Spoilsport.

I say this as a person whose liquor cabinet is typically decorative, but if you made it through the last eleven days of dry January without at least one little cocktail, oh my god what kind of subhuman monster are you even?

Billllllly! So good to see you here, man. Hard to cut through the noise on social media in general these days, so this is my place to babble at myself while I write....my void to scream (or whisper pleadingly) into, if you will.

Welcome to the ‘wait, hold my beer’ era, I guess?

I like my daily dose of absurdity before the morning caffeine kicks in and my brain is still numb.

Like, I know my credit score is important, but have you seen my bathroom sponge? It’s scrubby and new, baby.

Random pre-coffee thoughts: the bathroom cleaning sponge that didn’t first have the life wrung out of it in the kitchen is an underrated adulting milepost, I feel.

Mad props to the radon-mitigation guy who just willingly followed me into the basement despite my answering the door giving creepy deranged shut-in vibes -- confused and wondering what day, time, year and planet this was -- having freshly emerged from a writing binge.

This morning I caught myself wondering if my cat's butthole is supposed to be that big and now I'm thinking I should probably take a break from the computer and get out of the house for a bit.

Really leaning hard into the ‘distracted writer’ vibe this AM. Locked myself out of the house while taking out the trash and arguing with a character.

When I started writing back in college, my protagonists were the cocky, edgy, cool-ass guys I liked to imagine I was. These days, they're the neurotic, insecurity-riddled, socially awkward guy I am. You know, I'm not sure I like the so-called wisdom and clarity that come with age.

You know, this whole 'reclusive writer in the woods' gig isn't half bad. When my husband's at work, I still have the cats and houseplants to talk to. My car says they don't count as human interaction, but what does that motormouth know? I mean, has he even *seen* what people are like these days?

Did I just equate being a writer to being a child with an unfortunately-timed bladder? Yes...yes I did. Not the most elegantly tasteful analogy, but there we have it.

‘Now’ being in the middle of a long stretch of highway with nowhere opportune to pull over. AKA right now, when I’m loaded with pre-workout and caffeine and I’m jittery and overstimulated and should be on my way to the gym but have an idea desperately bugging me to get out.