Released

Well, hot damn! The book is out at last. And it feels…cool.

Sorry. That’s not—I’m not great at feelings. Let me try again.

It was a cold and blustery autumn day when my book took its first, intrepid steps into a harsh, unfeeling world, and I felt…pretty neat about it.

Oof. That’s somehow worse.

Okay. One more try.

After eight years of writing, editing, rewriting, re-editing, second-guessing, and panic-proofing, the silly little book I wrote is an actual thing. A material object you can use as a coaster or a shim to hold a tottery table steady. It’s out there. Exposed. For people to read. Strangers. And people I know. Which is obviously the scarier of the two.

I’m feeling…everything. All of the things. All at once. All the different voices in my head are piping up to give their varied opinions and it is getting a bit loud in here.

Thrilled! Sheephish! Terrified! Nauseous! They’re all over the place. One’s like, HOW PRESUMPTUOUS. NOBODY ASKED YOU TO WRITE A GROCERY LIST, MUCH LESS AN ENTIRE BOOK, and she has a posh British accent so you know she really means it.

This morning I went down to the river to sit on a large rock and try to sort things out. The water glittered at me in the sunlight and I felt a little wobbly as I reflected on all the people who’ve helped and supported me, everyone whose compassion or humor has inspired some part of the book even if they didn’t know it. It overwhelmed me, all the people with their good hearts.

But then sixteen-year-old Carrie appeared beside me.

“This rock is kinda small, huh?” she said, crouching on the edge of it.

“There’s another rock over there,” I said, pointing. “We don’t have to share this one.”

She spared it a perfunctory glance, then stared at me meaningfully until I shifted to the other rock. She settled herself down and asked what was up.

“Well…as it so happens, I have written a book. And it’s been published. This very day.”

“I know.” She pulled a baggie of dry cereal out of nowhere and offered me one.

“You do.”

“Yuh.”

“Oh.” I took a piece of cereal and crunched into it. “Well, what do you think about that?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

She stopped chomping and eyed me wryly. “You didn’t think you would actually do it, did you?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I have done it.”

“That’s what I’m saying. That’s why it feels like a surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever actually do anything like this.”

“What, write a book?”

She considered her words carefully. “Act in such a way that you have an impact on the world, rather than allowing yourself to be acted upon.”

Frowning, I whispered, “You are so annoying.”

She was right, though. I’ve spent much of my life letting things happen to me rather than acting as a decisive force in my own life. For whatever reason, I have let countless opportunities in my life slide past me while I stood stock-still and made a big, ineffectual show of saying, “Oh, nooo!” as they drifted out of sight.

I could’ve done that with this book. It would have been easy. Seeing as I have so much practice. When it was rejected by literary agents, I could’ve decided to (and almost briefly did) fold myself up into a small origami box of despair. But for some unfathomable reason, I said “Screw it” and published it anyway. What sort of maniac does that? I’d been gatekept! Where was my pride? Who did I think I was?

Really, it’s all because of sixteen-year-old Carrie. The whippersnapper. This is a book I needed to read when I was her age: confused, socially maladroit, desperate for connection but utterly at a loss as to how to receive it. The book is for her, really. If anyone else happens to read it, and if they happen to enjoy it, then that’s just a bonus.

(No, not “just.” It’s a huge, massive, incomprehensibly enormous bonus. It’ll be the thrill of my lifetime if this book gives you even a bit of a giggle.)

Now. One of the voices in my head is a cranky old man who tells me this is nothin’ special. “Get back to work!” he barks. He sounds like my tenth-grade English teacher, actually. Equal parts grumpy and strangely encouraging. And you know what? He’s right. Time is a-wastin’.

So thank you, thank you, especially today, for reading.

Time for me to get back to work.

PRE-ORDERS ARE LIVE

YOU. CAN ORDER. THE BOOK. IT’S THERE. IT’S HAPPENING. HOORAAAAY.

The closer we get to the launch date, the less coherent I become, so maybe it’s best to stick to some structured question-and-answer.

WHAT SHOULD I ORDER?

This book right here, A DAZZLE OF ZEBRAS, by that silly woman over there, CARRIE MULLER.

WHEN SHOULD I ORDER IT?

Right now! Immediately! BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!

The official release is October 18th, 2022, but the sooner you order it, the sooner you get to read it (and smugly judge my writing abilities from the comfort of your very own home/toilet/morning commute). Now, doesn’t that make you want to rush right out and order a copy?

WHERE SHOULD I ORDER IT?

1. Head over to your local bookstore and/or library and ask them for A Dazzle of Zebras by Madam Carrie Muller. Tell them it’s available on Ingram. They’ll know what that means. (If they don’t, just make uncomfortable eye contact for 5-10 seconds before running out of the store.)

2. It is also available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, if you prefer (although that whole local bookstore thing…pret-ty fun!).

3. Money should never be a barrier for anyone who wants to read a book. To that end, libraries are getting another mention here because I can’t overstate how amazing it is to be able to walk into a building and walk out with a stack of FREE BOOKS. In any other situation, this would be called THIEVERY.

4. Or, if you want to try your luck, there will be occasional GIVEAWAYS. Sign up for the newsletter below to keep updated.

5. Alternatively, if you NEED to have a copy in your hands ON release day, the ebook version is only $2.99, which is probably about what you could scrounge up from the cupholders of your car. (Assuming you have a car. If you don’t, good for you! With the amount you’re saving on gas and insurance, why not reward yourself with an ebook for $2.99?)

WHOM SHOULD I ORDER IT FOR?

Anyone. Everyone. I think your great-aunt would like a copy. Probably your dog, too. Maybe send one to your dentist so they can keep it in their waiting room.

WHY SHOULD I ORDER IT?

Oh. Hm. Well…that’s a toughie.

But you know, I genuinely think you will enjoy it. That is difficult for me to say because self-deprecation is my native language, but that’s also sort of the whole point of the book: vulnerability is hard. And believing anything nice about yourself might be the hardest thing of all.

Order this book because it’s about friendship and first love and the difficulty of being a person. Order it because it looks at anxiety with compassion and grace. Order it because it will make you laugh. I promise.

---

And if you do order it, whether it’s a pre-order or whether you pick it up in your dentist’s waiting room six months from now, please know how much I appreciate you. I know I say this all the time, but it’s still true:

You’re the best.

Thank you.

Donut Day

[Today is National Donut Day! So here’s a bit of festive flash fiction for you. Tracy and her friends are characters in a book I’ll be releasing soon, A Dazzle of Zebras. Here’s your chance to meet them in advance—I hope you like ‘em! I mean, like…I really hope you like them. If you don’t, that’ll be…a significant bummer. So…fingers crossed!]

A fan is humming when we walk into Duchess Donuts, but I’m not sure it’s doing much to cool the place down. The air is thick and sticky with sugar; the homey scent of yeast ushers us farther inside the little shop. I run my fingers along the glass display case, all the shiny donuts waiting there in rows to be eaten. By meee!

“Hey, Hank,” I say to the droopy-eyed man behind the register. “A very merry Donut Day to you.”

He nods. “Traaacy. Your usual?” He’s already reaching for a pink cardboard box.

“You know it.”

I lean against the counter and look back at my friends. Sophia smirks at me.

“You know the donut guy’s name?”

“You have a usual?” Alfie says.

Nick says nothing. He knows me too well to be surprised.

“Oh, yeah,” Hank says with his light Cambodian accent as he loads sprinkled cake donuts into the box. “Tracy’s been coming here for years. We’re like family. My wife’s like her second mom. What can I get for the rest of you?”

“I’ll take one of everything,” Alfie says.

Hank looks at me and I shrug like, What do you expect? The boy has taste. “It is National Donut Day.”

“We’re gonna need a bigger box,” he says.

Nick leans over to me and mumbles, “I’m getting a Snapple.”

As he slinks over to the fridge, I announce, “Nick’s getting a Snapple!” to the entire shop.

“Congratulations,” says Hank.

Nick glares at me over his shoulder and I say, “Sorry. I’m all hyped up.”

Scooting into one of the booths by the window, Sophia says, “Nick, you should work here this summer.”

“That means we’d get free donuts, right?” Alfie slaps his palm on the counter. “Hank! Get this man an application!”

“He’s too tall,” Hank says. “Make me look too short.”

Nick gives me a look like, Who is this jamoke? But Hank has a point. Nick was five-foot-six in third grade, and he’s only grown taller since then.

Alfie helps me heft the two boxes of donuts over to the table.

“So what’re we planning to do with these bad boys?” Sophia asks as she opens the lid and picks out a sour cream donut.

“We are going to sit here,” Alfie says, “until we finish every—single—one.”

“Then we can have dessert,” I chirp.

“Great,” she says, taking a bite. “Too bad this isn’t a real holiday.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that like, obviously I love the idea of Donut Day, I just wish it were an actual holiday.”

Nick purses his lips and scrunches his eyes shut. “Easy, Sophe.”

“But like…this isn’t a real holiday, right? Like, this is one of those Tracy holidays that you make up and then force everyone to celebrate. Like Hug a Fish Day.”

“Hug a Fish Day suuucks,” Nick groans.

“Or like last year,” Alfie says, “when you made us hang tissues from your bedroom ceiling because you wanted Flu Season to be a little more festive.”

“Actually it is a real holiday.”

Sophia tilts her head skeptically.

“It is! I promise.” I start in on a second sprinkled donut.

They peer at each other silently for a moment.

Finally Alfie sighs. “Okay, fine. Tell us the history of Donut Day then, Tracy.”

I straighten up in my seat. “I thought you’d never ask!”

Nick shakes his head quietly and crosses his arms. “I donut think you want to hear it.”

I shush him and begin my story. “Once upon a time there lived a woman named Marchu.”

“Marchu?”

“Gesundheit. This was a poor woman, you see, and she had little to feed her twenty-six children.”

“Twenty-six?!”

“One for every letter of the alphabet. But after years of drought and famine and locusts and the inevitable blood rain, she decided to set out for the king’s castle to plead for help.”

“What country is this?”

“So Marchu set out toward the castle, and the journey took weeks and was fraught with terrors: the ice fields and the fearsome giant hopping toads and the wide chasms she must cross with only the aid of a rickety rope bridge. Finally, though, she made it to the castle. But when the guards saw her bedraggled state, they refused to let her enter, much less have an audience with the king. ‘Servants’ entrance is in the back,’ they told her.”

“Rude.”

“I know. But Marchu was used to this type of treatment, and she went around to the servants’ entrance, which happened to open into the kitchen. The door was open, and as she stood in the doorway, she filled her lungs with the most wonderful scent. Rich, yeasty, wholesome…her mouth watered and her stomach growled so loudly that the head chef looked up in surprise. ‘You zere!’ he said. He was French, this chef. He said, ‘Beggar woman! Get ahway from mah keetchen!’ But Marchu was clever. Not to mention desperate. She told the French head chef that she was a new cook just hired by the king.”

“That seems like it would be pretty easy to fact-check.”

“The head chef of the castle didn’t have time to fact-check, Alfie! He just told her to come inside and get started kneading. But of course, Marchu didn’t know what that meant. She’d never seen anything like this before.”

“Wait. You’re saying she didn’t know what bread is? Nobody in her entire village had ever heard of yeast?”

“Not everyone has heard of things, Sophe. Now, Marchu knew if she could only get her hands on a small morsel of this remarkable substance, it would keep growing and growing, and she’d be able to feed all her twenty-six children for eternity. So she quickly learned the ins and outs kneading and cutting out the circle buns the king liked and frying them up all golden-brown, and every night when the work was done, she secreted away the extra dough that got caught under her fingernails.”

“Gross. Call the health inspector.”

“Finally she had enough and returned to her village. She fried up the dough as her twenty-six children looked on in amazement, and that night they all ate until their bellies were stuffed. And that would have been that, except that the youngest, Zachariah, accidentally dropped his in the sugar pond. At first Marchu scolded him, but when she tasted it, she realized what an opportunity this was! She started selling her buns, dipped in the sugar pond, far and wide, and that’s how we got donuts.”

Alfie spews crumbs all over the table. “Wait, what! They had a sugar pond this whole time?”

“But no dentist in town, so it wasn’t like they could just eat that all day.”

“Well, what did they use to fry the donuts?”

“Oh, they just fried them in the hot oil springs in the caves near the village.”

“Oh, of course. Wasn’t that obvious, Alfie?”

“So anyway,” I say, “that’s the story of Marchu and the donuts. Every year on Donut Day we stuff ourselves with donuts of all sorts to commemorate her daring heist and ingenuity. You know, I kind of hope that eventually, every day will be Donut Day, all across the globe. That is my dream for this troubled world. I mean, yes, diabetes and obesity rates would soar, but it will be worth it.”

When I finish, Sophia and Alfie gape silently at me. They look mad. Grinning, Nick reaches across me for a bear claw.

“A very merry Donut Day to us all,” he says.