Guest post written by The Donut Prince of New York author Allen Zadoff
Allen Zadoff is the award-winning author of The Unknown Assassin Trilogy, Food, Girls and Other Things I Can’t Have, and several works of non-fiction. A former stage director, Allen is a graduate of the A.R.T. Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard University and the Warner Bros Comedy Writers Workshop. He currently lives in Los Angeles.
About The Donut Prince of New York: When plus-size teenage playwright Eugene Guterman accidentally tackles the school quarterback and gets recruited to the football team, he’s suddenly thrust into a world of popularity and possibilities. But as the pressure to fit in grows, Eugene must decide if changing himself is worth losing who he really is. “A pitch-perfect journey of self-discovery.” Kirkus, starred review.
When I sat down to write The Donut Prince of New York, my upcoming YA rom-com, I knew exactly what kind of hero I wanted to create: the kind I never saw growing up. Enter Eugene Guterman—a plus-size teenage playwright who loves theater, feels uncomfortable in his own body, and has a complicated relationship with donuts. In other words, me at sixteen. Well, minus the football team. (More on that later.)
I grew up as a fat kid in the 80s, and I don’t remember seeing a lot of male role models who looked like me. Sure, there were plenty of guys on TV, in movies, and on magazine covers—but they all seemed to come from a different planet, Planet Confidence. Chiseled jaws, six-pack abs, certainty that bordered on delusional. They were the kinds of guys who had everything figured out—except, of course, for feelings. Feelings were for lesser mortals.
As a kid who was on the heavier side, nervous in social situations, and maybe a little too into the creative arts (yes, I was that theater kid), these guys didn’t seem real. If anything, they made me feel like there was something wrong with me. I wasn’t tough or ripped or stoic. I was sensitive as hell–funny, anxious, and obsessed with food. I liked to write plays and short stories in my free time. And I didn’t exactly see those traits being celebrated on the big screen.
A big character as a romantic hero? No way. That kind of thing just didn’t exist.
For a long time, I bought into the idea that if I didn’t fit the prevailing image, I wasn’t good enough. As a teenager, that message does some damage. It’s hard to be comfortable in your own skin when the world around you is telling you that your skin needs to be tighter.
But it’s tough to improve on something if you believe it’s fundamentally broken. What I learned is that change is much easier from a place of acceptance and surrender. If you start by accepting who, what and where you are, anything is possible. So I guess the real thing that needed to change was my attitude about myself.
That’s why Eugene’s story felt so important to tell. At the start of the novel, he’s pretty convinced he’s not okay. He’s a high school junior with no love life, no theater production on the horizon, and—if his physician mom has her way—no more donuts. Then he accidentally tackles the star quarterback (don’t ask), gets recruited onto the football team, and suddenly finds himself hanging out with “The Pops,” the school’s elite clique of popular athletes. There’s also a new girl named Daisy Luna who starts paying attention to him. So it seems like Eugene is getting everything he thought he wanted.
But, of course, it’s never that simple. Eugene quickly realizes that life at the top is full of pressure—pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way, be someone he’s not. And even though he’s technically “made it,” he starts to miss his old life, his old friends, and the simplicity of just being himself, a writer in a coffee shop, tapping on the laptop keys. Eugene’s journey is about figuring out that the person he’s been all along—the one who loves theater and donuts—is actually more than good enough.
He also learns that “those” guys, the ones who seem to have it all together? They’re not so different. They have their own challenges. We all do.
I wanted Eugene to reflect the reality of so many boys (and men) who struggle with their bodies, with self-image, and with feeling like they’re not enough. The truth is, it takes courage to be vulnerable. And the more we show young men that it’s okay to be imperfect, the more we open up the possibility for real growth.
In a world that still prizes outdated ideals of masculinity—where being “a man” means being tough, unemotional, and always in control—guys like Eugene are essential. They show us that it’s okay to be creative, to be vulnerable, to not have all the answers. They remind us that loving who you are is the first step toward becoming who you want to be. And that, maybe, the perfect male role model isn’t the one with the six-pack abs and the cool confidence—it’s the one who’s still figuring it out, one day at a time.
