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.

Mark Your Calendar! (Again)

So many things about self-publishing are just so, so great (so many I couldn’t possibly list them right now—not because I can’t think of any, obviously…it’s a simple matter of conserving space), but without a doubt the absolute best thing is the freedom to set your own deadlines.

You see, my little dumplings, it turns out that most deadlines are entirely made up, plucked from the ether by some unqualified person or other, and as long as no one gets seriously hurt (we’re all grateful Balto and Togo didn’t miss their penicillin deadline, for instance), it really doesn’t do any harm at all to stand on the sidelines and wave as any given deadline parades past. In fact, I find it quite refreshing to push back a deadline. Which is fortunate for me because…I’m about to do just that.

If you’ve seen or spoken to me in the past few weeks, you’ll likely have noticed that I look rather more haggard than I used to: shuffling endlessly through stacks of papers, mumbling to myself, wringing my hands through spells of melancholia, clutching at my hair, eyes wild and stricken. I’ve spent the summer like a wan Victorian child too weak for anything save a daily turn about the garden, Nurse wheeling me in a chair as she prattles on about how late the daylilies are this year and how I mustn’t let the blanket slip from my shoulders lest I should catch a chill.

In short, publishing my first book has taken a toll on me. My timeline has been overly optimistic, especially when pesky things like COVID and SUPPLY CHAIN ISSUES have lurked just out of sight, waiting until the most inopportune moment to STRIKE.

With all this in mind, I regret to inform you that I will be pushing back the release date for A Dazzle of Zebras from August 30th…to October 18th.

My apologies.

After scribbling approximately eighty-six different timelines on the backs of old receipts, I realized it was impossible to both 1) release a book in August, AND 2) make sure that book’s not rubbish. Were I to stick to the original date, I might not receive a physical proof of the paperback/hardcover in hand before the publication date—and what if copies shipped out to readers with the cover printed all wonky? What if the words were printed backward? What if the text was entirely replaced with specimen drawings of freshwater amphibians? You wouldn’t want a wonky book, would you? Of course you wouldn’t! I couldn’t allow such a thing! At least not until the sequel!

It’s unfortunate. I’m impatient to send you my book, sheepishly excited to get it into your little paws so you can open the beautiful cover and set eyes on it at last. It feels like an arranged marriage—this little project I’ve nurtured for years is finally ready to go out in the world and meet its hundreds of spouses. Waiting another month and a half will be excruciating.

But let’s look at the bright side!

• Practicing delayed gratification makes us more resilient human beings!

• October is a much more bookish month than August, don’t you think? The end of summer is so busy, but by October the nights are long, the air is chilly, and the idea of curling up with a book doesn’t just sound appealing; it’s necessary on a soul level.

• More time to plan and implement fun little launch shenanigans (and you KNOW I’ve got some shenanigans up my sleeve).

  • This includes MARKETING STUFF, like sending copies to reviewers and finishing a book trailer and contacting libraries/bookstores and posting silly book videos on my shiny new YooouuuTuuuubbbe chaaannnneeellllll (which…you can absolutely subscribe to. If you want. No pressure. But it’d be pretty cool if you did).

• Delaying this release means less time to wait until the next book in the series. (Oh, yes, did I forget to mention this is a SERIES? WELL IT IS. GET PUMPED.)

• I won’t look as much like a sickly goblin person. Always a good thing.

• All of you who’ve already requested signed copies deeefinitely wouldn’t have received those by August, but October is far more attainable.

• And you know what else? Maybe I like to tease a bit. Maybe it gives me a little thrill. Maybe I’m a tiny rascal. So sue me.

PLUS, to make up for this abrupt change of plans, starting on the previous release date of August 30th, I will release videos of ME (carrie! your Friendly Neighborhood Writer Person!) reading a chapter or section of the book, every week, straight through to the new release date of October 18th. That’s like, seven weeks. That’s a lot of reading. A good chunk of the book. I…am gonna need to brush up on my phonics.

Well…I guess that’s all. Please don’t hesitate to wail and/or harangue in the comments below. You’ve earned it.

With great humility and greater chagrin, I remain your grateful servant,
The Author

PS—I felt so bad that I decided to give you a sneak peek of a reading TODAY! OVER ON THE YOUTUBES! TO WHICH, AGAIN, YOU MAY SUBSCRIBE AT YOUR LEISURE!

The Panics

The other day I was watching a show that had a Spanish word on the side of a truck. I paused the scene and gaped at the screen for a moment, dismayed.

Is that really how you spell that word? I asked my mom, who spent her high school years living in Mexico and still knows quite a bit of Spanish.

She looked at me wide-eyed, because…that’s a weird question. “Yes…?”

“Oh,” I said. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Actually, I’d made a lot of terrible mistakes. I scrabbled for my laptop and pulled up the manuscript—the manuscript I’d already dubbed “Final” and turned in for formatting—and began triple-checking all the foreign-language phrases that teenage linguaphile Tracy uses in the book. What I found made me LOSE MY DAMN MIND. Accents were missing! Pronouns were misplaced! Words that should be capitalized weren’t and words that shouldn’t be capitalized were! It was my literal nightmare.

How could this have happened? I thought, in utter embarrassment and despair. I was so careful.

At least, I thought I’d been careful. I’d gone over the text probably close to forty times, in addition to sending it out for editing/proofing. But clearly, my scrupulosity was bested only by my hubris.

Why hadn’t I asked a Spanish speaker if “diálogo” needed an accent? (It does!) Why didn’t I double-check my subject-object pronouns with someone who speaks German? (Ein Deutschsprecher!) Why would I just blithely trust Google Translate with so many foreign-language phrases, yet devote hours to researching the appropriate use of a hyphen? (It’s a complicated matter that can’t be summed up in a pithy parenthetical remark—ask me later!)

Over the next few minutes I spiraled into paranoia. I HAVE TO CHECK THE ENTIRE THING AGAIN, I wailed. OTHERWISE EVERYONE’S GONNA KNOW HOW CARELESS I AM. WHY DID I EVEN ATTEMPT TO ADD FOREIGN-LANGUAGE PHRASES WITHOUT COMPLETING RIGOROUS COURSES IN ALL LANGUAGES WORLDWIDE? I AM AN ABSOLUTE AMATEUR.

Bill tried his best to calm me down. “You can’t even be expected to find every typo in English,” he said, “and you speak English, Carrie.”

This didn’t have the effect he thought it would.

I’LL CHECK IT TEN MORE TIMES, I thundered. A HUNDRED! I’LL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE PROOFREADING THIS MANUSCRIPT UNTIL I’M CERTAIN THERE ARE NO…MORE…MISTAKES.

But Carrie, a little voice said in my ear, you can never guarantee there will be no mistakes. And do you know why?

“Why?” I said, my voice a-quiver.

Because languages are made up. In English we can’t agree on the Oxford comma or the pronunciation of “-ough” or whether to spell it “flavor” or “flavour.” Languages are complex and inconsistent and you simply cannot please everyone when it comes to words. If an error does slip through, all you have to do is correct it. You are a human and your readers are humans. They will understand.

Well. Except for the French. Just make sure you get the French right, or l’Académie Française will send its agents after you in the nighttime and they will cudgel you with cabbages and baguettes, shouting, <<Utilisez l’accent circonflexe, s’il vous plaît!>> It will be humiliating, but you won’t want to cry lest the ruthless Académie agents call you a pleurnicheuse.

Somehow, this managed to reassure me when nothing else could.

Realistically, I told myself, not that many people will read my book. I mean, I hope a lot of people will read it, but compared to how many people there are in the world? Compared to how many people have existed on the planet throughout time? Only like half will end up reading it, tops. Of those, how many know enough Spanish or German or French or Italian or Mandarin to even know whether I’ve used the permanent or temporary form of “to be”? I mean, plenty of people from history were wholly illiterate, so they would have to listen to the audiobook anyway, and spelling wouldn’t matter at all in that case. So really, when you think about it, considering the entire history of the world and the significance my tiny book holds within it, is any of this really a big deal at all?

Yes.

In my small world, it is a huge deal. So I will continue to quadruple- and quintuple-check every phrase in the book like a neurotic little humbug until the formatter is forced to rip my laptop from my gnarled, cramped, carpal-tunnel-ridden hands so I can’t make any more changes.

At which point I will fold my hands in my lap and rock back and forth, muttering, “Estoy, estás, está, estamos, estáis, están…” until August 30th, when I’ll be free to fret about the next book, focusing all my neurotic energy on Shakespeare quotes and Prince trivia.

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.

Danke schön

I’m sort of coming up on the end of Things I Need to Write before the release of YA friendship-rom-com (platoni-com?) A Dazzle of Zebras. I have my novel…my title…my back cover description…my dedication…all that’s left, really, are the acknowledgments.

But how—HOW?—does a person even begin to mention everyone who’s contributed to writing a book? Writers have to prioritize their direct contributors, I guess, otherwise this section would be longer than the book itself and you’d get acknowledgments like, “Thank you to the girl in the ladies’ room in Terminal C at the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport whose loud phone conversation inspired several funny exchanges in the third chapter.” Or something like, “Big shout-out to all my ancestors whose biological imperatives ultimately resulted in my birth. I owe ya one, guys.”

Then again, I would enjoy seeing an author who goes completely the other way and just says, “Um, how about thank you to ME, the person who put in all the sweat, blood, and tears—mostly tears—almost entirely tears—so much crying—in fact, at one point I became severely dehydrated—spent three days in the hospital—cost me a fortune in medical bills—to write this book in the first place? And NO thanks to all the haters who laughed at me because I spelled ‘tomorrow’ wrong in the second-grade spelling bee. Look at me now, suckas!”

In the end, however, one ought perhaps to play it safe and just thank everything. The universe, as a great and terrible whole, has created me, and I have created this book (though whether the book merits that sort of thanks remains to be seen). So thank you, everything. For everything.

You’re the best.

BOOK DESIGN (and such)

Last week I had a meeting about book formatting and cover art. IT WAS VERY EXCITING.

…By which I mean it was Totally Normal since, as a Modern Businesswoman, I am Entirely Accustomed to Taking Meetings…with Professionals…about Business Matters.

Anyway.

It’s a bit intimidating, this part. This is where it goes from being an idea in my head to a tangible thing that exists in the world for other people to look at and pick up and put back on the shelf and thumb through with sticky fingers and shove in a backpack and callously dog-ear and drop in a puddle and set in front of a fan to dry and press under other heavy books that will never quite straighten out the wavy pages. Maybe someone will hollow it out to use as a book safe to hide Secret Things. A girl can dream, anyway.

My point is you want to get it right if you’re aiming for book safe status. You want the font to be readable, you want the running head not to trip, you want the cover to look professional and enticing, like a petit bonbon in a French patisserie.

But writers, for the most part, are not designers. We don’t know how to achieve any of those things. All we know about are stupid words, which are only worth 1/1000 of a picture. So we have to bring in a professional artiste and try to paint a word-picture that they can then translate into a picture-picture.

It’s hard to let go of control and trust someone else. It’s like getting a tattoo—you don’t want to put yourself in the hands of someone who says, “Gimme twenty bucks and a ballpoint pen.” But a talented designer knows what they’re about, and writers can still influence the final product. A cover brief outlines writers’ preferences, ideas, thematic elements…all the Word Stuff that helps the designer do their Mysterious Art Things and magic up a cover that makes you go, “AWWWW YEAH” and then cough quietly because that was a very unprofessional reaction.

While I won’t tell you what we discussed in the meeting because I don’t want to spoil the cover reveal, I will suggest some phrases you can use to communicate effectively with an artist:

• I don’t know what I like, but I know what I don’t like, so maybe you could just show me some ideas and we’ll go from there.

• I want a font that feels playful, but also a little sullen? Like a teenage girl who goes to get ice cream with her dad but then the cool kids from school show up. You know what I mean?

• Yeah, I watched a couple YouTube videos about Photoshop. I could probably do your job.

• I really like the cover of this book here. What if we just take it and replace the words with my title?

• Can you get this done by tomorrow morning?

• You know the feeling when you’re on a boat and the sea air rushes through your hair, and it stings to open your eyes but you do it anyway, and the sun on the water makes you feel a little dazzled and dizzy, and your breath catches at the sheer vastness of the ocean? That’s the sense I want people to get when they look at the cover.

• Just make it look good.

Blurb

I took a break from edits to write out a book description for the back cover. As if that would be a nice, quick, simple task to bolster and re-motivate me.

It’s just 150 words about a book that’s already written, I thought. That’s like a second-grade book report. Easy-peasy.

But it was not easy-peasy. It was in fact difficult-pifficult.

[Ed: I’m a little worried that these posts make it seem like I’m not enjoying the process of publishing this book. In some ways, that’s true! Like anything else, this is work! But it’s satisfying work. I like the feeling of giving my brain a workout every day. I like piecing words together like a puzzle until everything fits just right. It does drive me crazy, but in a way that compels me to keep going. It’s a sickness! But I’m a jolly little invalid.]

If writing a book is like carving away marble until you reach the shape of a human figure that’s lurking inside it, then writing a book blurb is like taking that sculpture’s thumb and carving another miniature figure out of it, but the smaller figure is doing KARATE MOVES! and TAMING A LION! and UNICYCLING ON A TIGHTROPE! This little guy has all the responsibility of catching people’s interest so they will spend some time and money to look at the bigger sculpture.

…That metaphor left something to be desired.

Maybe it’s more like cooking a gourmet meal. You have all these elements that go into it, and you work and experiment and adjust the components to get them all complementary and balanced just right so they make a harmonious whole, a taste that’s richer and more satisfying than the sum of its parts. This is a meal that means something—this is art! But then, to get people invested enough to take a bite, you have to first take that meal and boil it down (so to speak) into a single bite that hints at the complexity of the entire meal, but doesn’t entirely give away the best bits. A blurb is an amuse-bouche, if you will. (Will you? Is this metaphor working?)

It takes skill to write an effective blurb. You can’t lie, or the reader will be confused and annoyed, but you can strategically focus on the most intriguing elements of your story, like so:

1. First you have to find a HOOK. (If you’re writing a book about pirates, you’re already halfway there.) Maybe that’s a punchy, intriguing concept. Or, if you have them, you could lead with accolades like, FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR G.D. FERNHAVEN COMES A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER THAT WILL “LITERALLY MAKE YOU SCREAM UNTIL YOUR THROAT FALLS OUT. THIS BOOK COST ME THOUSANDS IN MEDICAL BILLS.”

2. Then you backtrack. The reader’s like, SAY WHAT? THAT FIRST SENTENCE HAS MY INTEREST PIQUED! This is where you reel ‘em in. You set up a SCENE. This is the NORMAL WORLD. We find out who the main character is (briefly) and what they WANT. We learn in a pithy sentence or two why we should CONNECT WITH and ROOT FOR this total stranger.

3. But of course, it isn’t a story unless something HAPPENS. There are OBSTACLES to whatever it is the character wants. UH-OH, we say. WHAT’S THE CHARACTER GONNA DO?

4. WELL, THE BLURB’S NOT GONNA TELL. It leaves us on a cliffhanger, echoing our question and setting the stakes: WILL CORNELIUS FIND OUT THE TRUTH…BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE? CAN EUGENIA UNLOCK THE SECRET…BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE? DOES SHERYL HAVE A CHANCE IN HELL OF DOING WHATEVER SHE NEEDS TO DO…BEFORE WHATEVER CLOCK THAT’S TICKING DOWN RUNS OUT AND A HORRIBLE CONSEQUENCE BEFALLS HER AND/OR OTHERS?

It can get extra tough, however, when you have a story where the changes happen (mostly) internally. How do you make a plot sound exciting when the obstacle is, This character wants to have an okay time, but instead she’s having a bummer of a time! Like, what are the stakes? If she doesn’t figure something out, then…I mean, things will keep on being a bummer! Which sucks, right? Is that…are you interested? In hearing more? About that? Please?

It took a few weeks and lots of reluctantly critical feedback from friends and family, but I think I’ve finally got a passable description. “I’d read that book,” someone said (I assume with a shrug), and that’s all I can ask for.

Now I just have to finish all my other publishing tasks and get this bad boy out there…BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

How to Eat a Rotten Fish Sandwich

So. You’ve just received professional edits on your manuscript. WHAT NOW?

Well, before we get into all that, it’s time for an unsavory metaphor. You see, criticism is like a rotten fish sandwich. On the outside, the bread may be delightfully springy with a nice, chewy crust, maybe even sprinkled with seeds for a little extra crunch. But there’s no getting around that putrid filling gently sogging it all up.

The rule with criticism is to start and end with praise and slip the constructive bit somewhere in the middle—as if it will not be noticed, as if people will be tricked into focusing on the positive and let the negative settle like a feather on their palm. But what they've actually been given is more akin to a coupon for a free dental cleaning. Yes, it’s a bargain, but look at what they're getting.

Last Wednesday, I received edits for the first chapter of my book because, and I paraphrase, THAT WAS THE ONE THAT NEEDED THE MOST WORK, and my editor wanted to give me a head start on considering the changes. After a quick glance at her comments, I found myself paddling frantically through:

The Five Stages of Criticism

1. Feigned acceptance

2. Secret dismay

3. Nausea

4. Positive mantras

5. Snacking

This kept up for over a week, until I started to annoy even myself. Plenty of edits were still to come, and I couldn’t let myself fall apart like this again. I needed a PLAN. Some sort of COPING MECHANISM. To give some PERSPECTIVE in a MILDLY CHALLENGING TIME. And so, on the back of a bag of tortilla chips, I hastily jotted down:

How to Accept Constructive Criticism Gracefully (When You Are in Fact a Fragile Bird)

1. As they say (“they” being folksy-type optimists), an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. How does this apply to our situation? Well, first, we can deduce that the unit rate of prevention to cure is 16:1, so file that away for future use. Second, you can (and should) prepare yourself in advance for this harrowing experience. Namely, you’ll want to develop a thick skin—as thick as possible. This may involve different techniques of long-term exposure to the elements, but for a quick fix, try rubbing coarse salt all over yourself. Really get it into all the nooks and crannies. Maybe give it a good scrub with steel wool. Yes, you may experience some minor irritation and sensitivity at first, but it's worth it in end.

2. When it comes time to receive the criticism, you’ll want to drench your callused skin in oil. (Coconut oil works best here, but whatever you have handy will do the trick!) This will allow all feelings of shame and inadequacy to slip right off you like water off a duck’s oily back. All that will remain is the useful meat of the critique.

3. Fill up on a healthy meal so you’re less tempted to rage-snack. (Also maybe write yourself some reminders that your work does not define your worth and perfection isn’t a requirement of any creative endeavor.) Don’t forget to hydrate!

4. Once you get yourself in a good place emotionally, inject some humor into the situation. Put on a deep, movie-trailer-voiceover voice and pick out comments to read like they’re starred reviews.

   Critics call it “a literal page-turner…except for that first chapterrrr.”

   “Unrelenting banterrr.”

   “Bluntly, way too loooong.”

   “I really wanted the story…to move onnn.”

   (Not that any of these are direct quotes from any critique I’ve ever received. Let’s not be ridiculous, now. Such things do not become us.)

5. Remember, above all, YOUR EDITOR IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. Not that they should call you names and kick you, but don’t expect them to coddle you, either. It may seem cruel that they would painstakingly craft this rotten fish sandwich and serve it to you with a flourish, but ultimately, if you can pinch your nose and get it down, it will make you smarter and your work better. After all, it’s got all those omega-3s. (This metaphor may be falling apart.)

Tomorrow I can expect feedback on the rest of the manuscript. I’m going to arrange an elegant table setting, tuck the corner of the tablecloth into my collar, and get ready for the biggest rotten fish sandwich of my life.

How to Self-Publish Your Book in 13-ish Easy Steps

Many of you have asked me, “What does publishing a book yourself involve?” As far as I can tell, for many people the process looks like this:

Step 1: Write a book.
Step 2: Publish the book.
Step 3: Profit.

Honestly. It is possible to write a book in a week, slap together some cover art, and e-publish it on Amazon in a single evening. Some people do this. They churn out stories like Willy Wonka pumping out bizarre confections.

However! For other writers, there is Much More To It Than That. So, my good person, let me break it down for you. (You’re lucky this isn’t a podcast, otherwise I would take this opportunity to break into a ‘90s-style rap about e-pub versus POD.) I’ve used first-person plural so it feels like we’re really in this together—because as far as I’m concerned, we are!

1. Write a book. Have we done that? Oh, good. Phew! God, okay, that’s a relief. I panicked for a minute, there. Like when you have one of those nightmares about a test you didn’t study for—what do you mean I spent seven years on this book and it isn’t actually written?! So, that’s…whew. That’s good. Let us proceed.

2. Have the thing edited. Because we have a dreadful desire to seem like we know what we’re doing, we have hired a professional editor. She’s great, but mysterious. Our contract states we aren’t allowed to reveal her full name anywhere except in the acknowledgments of our book. She is a shadowy figure, which is part of the reason we hired her. That, and she described our sample pages as “wry” and knows her way around a hyphen. So.

3. Do some research. I mean, we’re gonna have to research all SORTS of things, so get ready. What price points are comparative novels selling at? What’s the best subgenre to categorize our book under? Is it really a hard-and-fast rule that a preposition is something you shouldn’t end a sentence with? So much to learn!

4. Write front and back cover copy. Did you think we were finished writing once we reached “The End” on our manuscript? Fools! We are never finished! There will always be more to write! This copy may include a tagline, blurb, acknowledgments, dedication, About the Author page, maps, and so on. It’s the Boring Stuff, and the Difficult Stuff, so we must make sure to reward ourselves with little treats when we’ve been a good child and finished our tedious work.

5. Format. Once the book is entirely edited—which includes several rounds of tearily clicking through the thousands of suggested revisions from our mysterious editor, then pausing to gaze out the window and wonder if there has ever been a soul as downtrodden as ours—we can whip this baby into shape. Page numbers! Headings! Uh…I don’t know what else. We’re entering territory I haven’t experienced yet. Chapter…breaks…?

6. Design the cover. Or, rather, have a professional design it for us. We don’t want the book to look like those report covers we “designed” in 1998 using Microsoft WordArt.

• Do all sorts of Official Stuff. Like purchase ourselves an ISBN number. And copyright our book. And, if we’re writing under a pen name, we must register our Fictitious Business Name. This all sounds like a bit of a slog, but it may also make us feel Very Fancy, as if we have made an Agreement to purchase a Fine Art for a Hefty Sum. “Speak to my secretary!” we will say. “I must away to an important Business Meeting! Time is money! Adieu!”

• Did you notice we switched from a numbered list to bullet points? Just checking if you’re paying attention.

• Decide which distribution company/companies to use. KDP? IngramSpark? Smashwords? BookBaby? Kobo? Plimby? Fortunato? WordBuffs? I’m just making up nonsense now.

• Get all our marketing ducks in a row. Nothing worse than disorganized ducks. This will entail sorting out our social media profiles, sending Advanced Reader Copies to reviewers, sprucing up our website and adding a landing page, setting up author accounts all over the place, and planning fun things like giveaways and special guest appearances on the talk show your cat films on weekday mornings.

• Commission an audiobook. Bitches love audiobooks.

• Launch the thing! This is the exciting part! This is the culmination of everything we’ve worked for! We can finally upload our book to our sales platform(s) of choice and enjoy the lavish party we’ve planned to celebrate our achievement! (Read: Eating an enormous piece of funfetti cake and going to sleep for a full week.)

• Continue to analyze and shift marketing strategy. This last step will continue for the rest of our lives. And when it comes down to it, isn’t this why we became a writer in the first place? To study market trends and adjust keywords based on performance? What could be more fulfilling?

• Write the next book. No time to waste! Call my secretary! Wait till my shareholders hear about this!

There you have it! Easy peasy! Admittedly, we skipped about seventeen steps of proofreading and re-proofreading and panic-proofreading the night before we launch, but all that started to sound repetitive and neurotic, so I took it out. And I tried to make this sound as fun as possible, because the truth is I feel overwhelmed and terrified all day, every day. What if I miss something? my wily brain says. Am I a failure if I’m not about that rise-and-grind hustle4lyfe and aim only for a moderate career? What if I don’t do everything right and the authors of the internet rise up as one and laugh at me and I bring dishonor on all my friends and family?

So that’s why I try to make this process sound fun, at least. You might think it’s for the reader’s entertainment, but really it’s a coping mechanism. See? I coo at myself. It’s not so scary. It’s only thirteen-ish easy steps! And you know what? Nobody’s really watching you, anyway, so who cares if you mess up? Nobody. You are irrelevant. I cannot overstate how little people care about the things you do. Now, doesn’t that feel better?

It does.

And with that, it’s time for me to get back to work.