A Flirting Interlude: Aunt Edna Returns

Usually on Valentine’s Day I post a comprehensive list of extremely useful and meticulously researched Flirting Tips for Human People. You’ve probably heard of the series. It is widely acclaimed.

However, I’ve decided to go in a different direction this year—and this year only—by touching on what comes AFTER a fruitful flirt. As the great poet once said,

“First comes love / Then comes marriage.”

(That’s not the rhyming bit. Just so you know. I didn’t want you to think it was just like…a bad poem.)

You might have noticed the poet neglected to mention flirting, which you may think was a mere oversight, but not so. I suspect this poet was an agent of the State. Which State? Doesn’t matter. They’ve all got the same objective: MARRIAGE. MARRIAGE FOR EVERY CITIZEN. The agents want everyone matched up and paired off and hitched away because they love the Cha-Cha Slide and aside from a seventh-grade school dance the only place they can hear it is at a WEDDING.

And do you really think that a State agent whose favorite song is the Cha-Cha Slide knows anything about flirting? Of course not. They haven’t even made the connection between flirting and marriage. That’s why I’m here (but more on that subject next year). I lay the foundation of flirtation. Excavate the site. Dig footings. Install rebar. Mix the banter up with water in the banter mixer until it’s smooth and ready to pour. Let it harden for a good 48 hours. You’re familiar with the process.

But that’s where my job ends. After I clear out, a one-woman crew comes in to build the bridge from flirtation…to love…to marriage. (It’s one of those rare bridges that has a stop in the middle.) And the name of the woman who makes up that one-woman crew is AUNT EDNA.

I can personally attest to her skills. Ten years ago, after I got engaged, right around the time the shadowy agents of the State started leaving vaguely threatening bolts of tulle outside my door, it was Aunt Enda who showed up and sorted me out. She guided me down the aisle with grace and wisdom and a line of little colorful sweets like a witch in a fairy tale. And here I am, a decade later, fully hitched and slingin’ flirting tips to the next generation of human people. And the cycle continues.

So if you happen to find yourself this Valentine’s Day WAY past the sweetly temperate realm of flirtation and well along the shaky bridge to MARRIAGEVILLE, I invite you to bask in the comforting (if musty) presence of Aunt Edna.

---

AUNT EDNA’S GUIDE TO WEDDINGS AND FALCONRY
(an excerpt)

When I first saw her, I thought she was a corpse. All slumped in a pile next to a massive steamer trunk just outside my apartment door. Exactly where I hadn’t left a corpse that morning.

Just as I got a good loud shriek worked up, the pile stirred, which cut the shriek off in my throat.

“Whooo are you?!” I shouted. I tried to assume a fighting stance, which for me meant jumping in the air and bicycling my legs.

“Whoa, whoa—whoa, girl! Hold it!” The bundle coughed raspily and lurched up to a seat.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” I cried.

She tipped back a dusty green felt hat and I saw her face. It had been six years since I’d seen her last, but she looked the same. Her pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and droopy with sleep, her frown little more than a puddle of wrinkles above her collar.

“Aunt Edna!” I nearly dropped to the ground with relief. “I thought you were dead!” (I realize now this was not a polite thing to say to an elderly woman.)

“Not yet!” she mumbled. “They haven’t got me yet.”

“How long have you been waiting here?” I asked.

“Oh, not long, dear, not long.”

“Well, what—what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just—”

As she stretched her limbs, they popped with a sound like a thumb running over a comb’s teeth, and I took in how thin she was under her layers of clothing.

“Just passing through,” she said.

“Well,” I said dazedly, “come inside.”

Together, we shoved her steamer trunk just past the door frame, and I managed to close the door behind it. She gazed around with a critical eye.

“Can I take your coat?”

She handed me her hat and shrugged out of the oversized military coat she wore. Thick, curly hair, the sort of color they call dun, spilled off her head like scrambled eggs. Her eyes darted warily in their sunken sockets. While I made coffee, she prowled around the place, silently scrutinizing pictures on the wall and peering behind furniture and running her fingers across every book on the shelves. She perked up a bit, though, after I settled her down on the sofa and placed a mug of coffee directly into her hand.

“Tell me about your young man,” she mumbled as her face sank into the cup.

“Bill? Oh, well, we met at college, and—”

She waved her hand. “Not that. Tell me about him.”

“He works as a numisma…”

“Not his job.” She spat on the ground in frustration. “When was he born?”

“Um…” I laughed nervously. “He’s a Pisces if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Oh, he’s a Pisces, is he? Of course that’s not what I mean! Use your head, girl. What day of the week was he born?”

“I don’t…you know, Aunt Edna, off the top of my head, I’m not sure.”

She scoffed. “And this is the man you’re supposedly going to marry, hmm?”

“I’ll have to look it up,” I said. “But why do you ask?”

“The old rhyme,” she said. “You know it. Monday’s child, fair of face, Tuesday’s child full of grace…and so on. By the way, you’re a Monday child, so you oughta start acting like it and put on some sunscreen once in a while. Monday’s child freckle-faced, more like.”

I smiled stiffly.

“Thursday!” I announced after consulting my phone’s calendar. “He’s a Thursday child.”

“Thursday, hey?” She raised her chin imperiously. “Thursday’s child has far to go.”

“What day of the week were you born, Aunt Edna?”

She barked out a laugh. “Impertinent.”

“Oh, come on. Are you a Saturday child, curls and bows? Or a Sunday child…knobbly…toes?”

A slow smile parted the wrinkles on either side of her mouth like a curtain. “I’ll never tell.”

Probably she was born before days of week were invented and couldn’t tell me.

“Oh, fine,” I said. “At least tell me where you’ve been all this time.”

“All this time? When was the last time I visited? Was it this century? Yes, I think…it’s only been a few years, dear. I saw you before you went off to college.”

“That was six years ago, Aunt Edna.”

“Right. Hardly any time at all. This is good coffee, dear.” She seemed mildly surprised.

We sat sharing silence for a moment, until I worked up the nerve to say, “I hope this doesn’t seem rude—because I am very happy to see you, of course—but can you tell me again what you’re doing here?”

She smacked her lips and gave me a long stare. “I heard about your wedding, and I wanted to congratulate you.”

“Who…I mean, how did you hear about it?” As far as I knew, no one in my family had a reliable way to contact Aunt Edna. She showed up when she pleased, and between-times she made herself a mystery.

She chortled. “O-ho, thought you could keep it a secret from me, hey? Well, girl, you have to wake up pretty early in the morning to fool old Edna. I’ve had this visit marked on my calendar for years. Now—” She set her mug down so forcefully some coffee sloshed over the side. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Oh, that’s—”

“How much do you have planned already?”

I looked at her, trying to pick some words from the ether to string together into an answer. But I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, but instead of words, this squeaky wailing sound came out.

“Carrie?” she said.

The noise went on and on. I felt my cheeks with my fingertips, but my eyes were dry. If I wasn’t crying, I didn’t know what this outburst was. Hunger? Was it the sound of abject appetite?

“Oh—my girl…now, that’s not a good noise.”

She moved over to sit next to me. Pulling me into a crushing hug, she patted my hair and made small cooing noises. She smelled like pipe tobacco and tumbleweeds.

Once I quieted down, she said, “Now, tell me what’s going on, dear. Tell me true. Don’t try to placate me with pretty lies and excuses. Just lay it on me, no matter how shameful or embarrassing it is.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s nothing, really—” Aunt Edna raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s just that I feel so…so…”

“Skeered?”

I nodded. “Yes. I am scared. It’s just…it’s like…I mean, you know? Like, it’s forever. Forever-ever.”

She gave my elbow a stiff pat. “You’ll be alright, dear. Everyone gets nervous before they get married. I’d think you a simpleton if you weren’t frightened.” She pressed her lips into a pitying smile. “Why don’t you go take a nap, dear?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” she said. “And don’t worry about keeping me entertained. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

She steered me into the bedroom, guided me under the covers, and tucked me in. I closed my eyes. A faint breeze met my face.

“Aunt Edna,” I said, “what’re you doing?”

The breeze stopped for a moment. “It’s easier to sleep when you’re cool.” Then the breeze resumed. It smelled of coffee and moth balls.

She was right.

---

There’s more. Much more. You haven’t even met the falcon yet.

But all that will have to wait. I tell the whole story in a little-lauded Wedding Book that’s been forthcoming for a decade now. It’ll probably still be forthcoming in another decade, so in the meantime we’ll get back to what we human people do best:

A GREAT AND TERRIBLE FLIRT.

See you next Valentine’s Day.

Someone's Got a Case of the Summer-Grumps!

Welp, summertime is here again and I…am…furious. I’m gonna fight the first firefly I see.

Then again, it’s not like the other seasons have been so great this year. Winter—at least here, in central Pennsylvania—gave a lackluster performance, without a single day of snow sticking to the ground. Spring was okay; everything bloomed beautifully and the squirrels were all twitterpated and whatnot. But in April a bird died on our sidewalk, so then there was a funeral to arrange, and it’s so hard to get back on track after that.

Now it’s summer, and I can’t say my hopes are high.

It’s just such a sticky season. Why must it be so sticky? Between ice cream and sunscreen, sweat and humidity, bug spray and lemonade, it’s three long months of peeling things off other things: your thighs off a seat, a coaster off the bottom of your glass, the rind off of…an orange.

Wow. I really thought that list would turn out better.

Anyway.

That being said, I’m tired of doing nothing but complaining every summer. The season refuses to change its attitude, but I CAN. It’s time to be the bigger person and make the best of things. To that end, this year we’re going to do some THEMED SUMMER READING. (Indoors. Obviously. In the air conditioning.)

And what is the best type of character to read about when you’re trying to make the best of something? That’s right: a plucky, imaginative, outdoorsy girl with no parents! (Be honest, did you say Ivan Denisovich? Close. Very close. That’s a good guess.) Buckle up, buds—it’s WHOLESOME HEROINE SEASON: Or, the Summer of the Whimsical Orphan! Featuring our most beloved and charming literary ragamuffins:

• Anne of Green Gables!

• Pippi Longstocking!

• Pollyanna!

• Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm!

• Heidi!

• Mary Lennox! (Just kidding. NO ONE LIKES MARY. But we’re reading The Secret Garden, anyway!)

• AND MANY MORE!

[N.B.: Not all of the characters we’ll read about are technically orphans, like Matilda and Harriet the Spy. But their parents are pretty neglectful—not to mention they’re both SO precocious—so I’d say it counts.]

Surely the summer heat will seem but a mere trifle if we spend the season minding goats in the Alps and baking pepparkakor at Villa Villekulla and fishing with our wolf friend on San Nicolas Island! Surely the pathological optimism of these parentless poppets will chase the summer-grumps away lickety-split!

If you’d like to join, rustle up a library card and get to readin’! First up is the ultimate whimsical orphan, PIPPI LONGSTOCKING by Astrid Lindgren. Or, if perchance you’re not all that interested in these SILLY ORPHAN BOOKS, tell me in the comments what you are reading this summer! Gimme the deets, señoreets. There’s nothing I like talking about more than books. And then, at the end of the summer, we can all have a BOOK IT! party with personal pan pizzas for everyone!

PERSONAL. PAN. PIZZAS.

Need I say more?

Follow along on Instagram @carriemulleryay! Happy reading, friends.

IT'S BABY-SNATCHIN' SEASON

Spring has unfolded in waves of purple and white. The scent of it nearly overwhelmed me when I went out to gather some violets for a floral tart I planned to bake. Clouds churned past the sun, casting shadows as I picked, but my glass jar was pretty well full by the time the first plump, round raindrops began to fall.

As I ran back to the shelter of the porch, a thought sprang unbidden to my mind: This isn’t quite right. There should be a child here. A tiny human should be scampering for cover alongside me, mossy stones and clover soft under bare feet.

It was a strange thought, because I don’t have any children. My nieces and nephews live far away, as do any close friends who would let me borrow their littl’uns for a spring afternoon.

And all that is fine, normally. Just that the rainy garden, all green and fragrant, seemed to cry out for a small creature with wide eyes to really appreciate it all: the ferns unfurling in the gully; the violets bashful along the path; the lilacs that the bumblebees so love all in heady bloom. There should have been an audience gathered ‘round the shaded patch of lilies-of-the-valley, where rain had set the delicate bells to tinkling.

“This is how May smells,” I would have said if there were someone there to hear it. “Perfume and petrichor.” But there was no one, and it felt like a crime.

Now, I am quite small and can be childlike in my own way, but my creaky joints and cynicism make a poor substitute for the innocent absorption of an actual child. The blossoms, I could hear, wondered what they’d gotten all dressed up for if not to inspire a youthful imagination.

“What shall I do?” I asked the plants. As if in answer, another thought popped into my head:

Why, go out a-snatchin’, of course.

And at that moment I saw clearly who I was, who I’d always been. I was the old woman in the forest, the fairytale witch with the lopsided smile and long scraggly hair who welcomes stray children into her garden. This reclusive crone is always assumed to have sinister intentions—why would she want to fatten up strange children if not to gobble them up?—but that isn’t it at all. She’s simply tapped into nature’s wild plumpening instincts so particularly potent in spring.

Glut yourself on honey and blossoms! Spring says. It’s been a long winter—roll in the grass with the worms and soothe your bee stings with chewed plantain leaves! Scratch strange glyphs into bits of sycamore bark with a pointy stick! And peel off those socks this instant!

How could every child know that dandelions turn into wishes if not for the wild old woman? Who taught the first child to coax a whistle from a blade of grass or chain a daisy? Who discovered that snapdragons could talk? Why, the solitary crone made giddy with spring, of course. (Though who first taught her remains an eternal mystery.) And every year she lurks behind gnarled mossy tree trunks, eager to share what she knows with the curious little bairns.

So watch out, all you careful parents. Auntie Carrie is coming to snatch up your wee ones. I’ll spirit them away to eat dill-pickle sandwiches in green-bean teepees and crouch on rocks at the edge of the river, investigating the tadpoles. Small hands and toes were made for mud puddles, and Auntie Carrie is happy to facilitate while pouring pink lemonade into cracked teacups for a blanket picnic, grinningly piling violet tartlets onto her best china platter.

Not forever, though, of course. I’ll send them home eventually, with crumbs in their pockets and snails in their hair and fingers sticky with jam, waving a beribboned animal skull fastened on the end of a stick.

If you didn’t know any better, you might not even know I’d been up to any baby-snatching at all. You might think this gorgeous pink-cheeked soaking-in of youthful glories had been merely the influence of the spring, the flowers, the rain.

Fraud

Listen. We like to have fun around here. We kid, we joke, we embellish and hyperbolize and mix a few metaphors, all in the name of telling a good story.

But I assure you the following is 100% true. The names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent. I couldn’t make these up if I tried. There are limits to creativity.

That said, please enjoy this story of my small misfortune.

---

You know it’s going to be a rough day when you wake up to a text from your credit card company:

Did you make this purchase from Yves Saint Laurent for $725?

I imagined the suspicious credit card fraud person flagging the charge. They must have gasped and shouted, “What’s all this? Carrie, shopping at Yves Saint Laurent? But she still buys sunglasses at the gas station!” Then they probably turned slowly to their neighbor and said in a low voice, “Some mischief is afoot.”

I quickly checked my email and yes, there was an email from YSL asking me to activate my account.

"Wot?” I said aloud, still quite groggy. “Did I go sleep-shopping last night?”

If so, it must have been quite a spree, for there were other emails. Dozens of them.

Please confirm your account at Damn Near Kilt ‘Em, one said.

And another: Congrats! Your account has been created at MadGerbilUK!

And then: Thank you for signing up to support the San Francisco Ballet.

“What happened last night?” I asked no one in particular.

The accounts were made in nondescript male names: JacobSamuel1 was confirmed at a shop called Just BB Guns, MichaelJosh was all set to start shopping at DreamHorses.com, and Thomas86340 (the jetsetter of the group, apparently) had opened accounts with several German and Russian sites.

However, as I read through the emails, I started to think of this mystery…individual? team of miscreants? as Alternate Carrie. The Carrie I might have been if I’d indulged all of my slightest, most trifling whims. Each email gave another little clue as to Alternate Carrie’s interests. She likes to garden (Vermont Bean Seed Company). She appreciates model trains (Legacy Station). She’s an avid vaper (AvidVaper.com). She has some questions, and she thinks Catholicism may have the answers (Catholicism Has the Answer).

Five hundred eighty-eight emails, five hundred eighty-eight clues.

YSL was the only place she’d successfully made a purchase with my credit card, but here are a few more sites Alternate Carrie hoped to patronize:

• BeanBagBazaar

• Sassy Spud

• Petsmart Nigeria

• Kidcarz.com

• GayCities (“The city guide created by people like you.”)

• Seal Beach Police

• “SINNER’s BONES”

• Pickleball Superstore

• pet o’clock

• Bearded Skullz BC

• My Fish Room

• Tool Depot 24/7

• Staple Pigeon

• Mysecret wigs

• ELK

• boohooMAN

• Jerky.com

• 2Kool4Skool

• Margaritaville Apparel

• Pink Chicken

• Super Luxury Business Cards

• Brooke’s Candy Co. (I would consider keeping this one)

• Alpaca Direct (this one, too)

• Fascia Expert

• Academia Furniture

• Undercover Lingerie (for spies—a poison dart pops out of the underwire!)

• Age of Wonders Heaven Forum

• Hospice Lotteries Association

• Dinosaw

• The Lightbulb Co.

• ron (I’m extra wary of opening this one)

After a while, I wandered over to the Yves Saint Laurent website, wondering what Alternate Carrie had purchased. Not a dress, certainly, or a faux-fur jacket—those sell for thousands of dollars. Even a bikini top runs close to $900, and that’s made of roughly five inches of fabric. She wouldn’t buy a purse or a necklace or a denim ball cap that could pay my mortgage for a month…

And then I spotted it. $725. Metal-free tanned leather. Dark beige.

The Cassandre Matelassé Compact Zip Around Wallet in Grain de Poudre Embossed Leather.

GRAIN DE POUDRE, PEOPLE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL

OF COURSE Alternate Carrie would buy this useless little thing. Real Carrie likes to stuff crumpled wads of cash in her pockets or her shoe, but Alternate Carrie has all her credit cards organized alphabetically in her compact zip-around wallet! Alternate Carrie loooves a good matelassé to go with her kilts and her secret wigs! And everyone knows Alternate Carrie cannot resist a quilted overstitch! In fact, I’m surprised she didn’t buy one in every color: black and dark natural and chartreuse yellow and FOG!

However, Real Carrie did not buy this wallet in any color. I texted the credit card people that no, I did not approve this purchase, at which point I assume the fraud person let out a sigh of relief.

“It’s okay, everyone,” they probably said. “It’s alright. We’ve got our girl back. Now let’s get a new card out to her pronto. She’s got forty bucks worth of Taco Bell burritos to buy.”

And Yet More Flirting Tips for Human People

Here at EARTH, the flirting never stops! Human people are always on the lookout for a cute li’l snack to flirt at until they can take the time to devour them properly.

BUT HOW DO THEY KEEP THIS UP FOR THE TWENTY-FOUR LONG HOURS OF A STANDARD EARTH DAY?

Well, after years of observation we finally have the answers. Read on to find out.

To do a flirt

1. It all starts with limbering up. Human people have lots of fun sayings like, “A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!” and similar illogical statements. By the substitution property of proverbs, we can understand that a flirty body leads to a flirty mind, and a flirty mind is always prepared to seize any opportunity for a good ogle.

2. Identify a flirtee. Each human person is equipped with two large orbs in the front of their head to constantly scan for potential mates. Not sure what to look for? Try this list of Attractive Human Qualities:

   1. Strong, square jaw

   2. Long, shiny hair

   3. Lustrous beard

   4. Small waist and round, child-bearing hips

   5. Broad shoulders

   6. Large, red lips

   7. Low-pitched voice

   8. Small feet

   9. Full breasts

   10. Ample chest hair

   Have you found this person? Great!

3. Bring a gift. In the illustration above, you can see that one suitor has brought his flirtee a large egg, which human people consider the most valuable object on their small planet. Notice the frustrated expressions on the other suitors’ faces: they know their offerings cannot compare. A potted plant? A floppy hat and infinity scarf that are pre-worn? Some kind of cheugy sign to hang in her foyer? Come on. The ram did not even bring a gift. He knows he has no chance at a successful flirt.

4. Prepare a dance. Many Earth species dance to attract a mate, and it appears the human is no different. Start by gathering up all your dangly bits—limbs and hair and whatnot—and flinging them about in different directions. Try a jump. An elaborate twirl. Shake. (We’re not certain yet exactly what to shake, as directives differ, so it’s best to play it safe and shake everything.) Do a flip.

   1. Tip: Don’t forget music. Our research has shown this to be an important part of the ritual, as dancing in silence is seen by human people as an unsettling deterrent to further flirts.

5. Once you have succeeded in the above tasks, set out a fancy table with starched white linens and taper candles. This lets the flirtee know you are ready for consume-ation. But that doesn’t mean you can resort to churlish behavior! Allow the flirtee to dictate for themselves in what manner they will be prepared for the meal. Baked? Grilled? Wrapped in banana leaves and roasted in a pit? Remain perfectly polite to the end and you will find you are left with no bitter aftertaste in the morning.

“Truly,” you will tell your friends when you are fully sated, “they were indeed more than a snack. They were in fact an entire meal.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, fellow human people, and godspeed on your flirts!

To Catch a Thief

When you’re an anxious sort, sometimes a fun thing to do is to lie awake in bed, late into the night, and picture horrible situations and how you would handle them. You know. So that in the unlikely event that they should happen, you’ll be prepared.

For example, what if an INTRUDER burst into my bedroom while I was sleeping (or lying awake picturing what I’d do if a volcano erupted in South Central Pennsylvania)? What are my options?

1. For some people, the immediate reaction would be to pull out the ol’ pearl handle revolver and start a-shootin’. But that’s not my style. I do, however, like to sleep with a machete under Bill’s pillow when he’s out of town (it’s almost like having him there—they both have dangerous curves). Just imagine breaking into someone’s bedroom and then hearing the crystalline shhhing! of a machete being unsheathed in the darkness. You look toward the sound and see, illuminated by a swath of moonlight, a woman sitting stock-still in bed, hair wild, eyes wide, her glinting weapon held upright before a truly horrible smile. I think I would skedaddle, wouldn’t you?

2. I slink down into the rumpled covers so it looks like the bed is empty. Then, while the thief is rummaging through the drawers for gems and gold bars (which aren’t there, naturally—they’re hidden above a specific ceiling tile at a specific Red Lobster, the same place my great-uncle the pirate sailor kept his valuables), I slide out from under the covers like an amoeba and slip beneath the bed. I pretend to be a pile of dirty clothes. The thief checks under the bed, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. My camouflage is too good.

3. Thieves are notoriously superstitious, and they refuse to burgle any place which might be haunted. With this in mind…the bed sheet is right there. It’s an obvious move.

4. I start sleeping in a ski mask every night. When the thief sneaks in, I pop up and whisper, “Finally! I thought you got lost!” I point him toward the dresser and say, “Here, grab the lady’s jewelry” as I stuff wads of cash from the nightstand into a duffel bag. We clean the place out and disappear into the night. Thus begins my life of crime.

5. The most realistic option, and the one that immediately came to mind when I posed the question to myself, is this: I lumber up into a crouching position and screech, “I WILL EAT YOUR HEART IN THE MARKETPLAAACE.” Not sure how that would go, but it is my natural instinct and I think I should follow it.

And that’s the trouble with anxiety. You can plan and rehearse these scenarios all night long, but when something does end up happening, you’re still just yourself. Neurotic and groggy and prone to theatrics.

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.