I started writing the book I’m working on in 2014. I had this idea to gather dating and relationship stories from people I knew, and I’d compile them into some sort of essay collection or litter them through a novel…I figured that all people are voyeurs and dating stories are full of scandal and misery, so it would make for very readable material. Friends sent me some juicy and delightful tales, and I stole a few more and changed some critical information…then, I started writing.

The book initially was a friendship tale between two women who co-host a dating and…

There are so many parts to a life, and you forget what they are and how they work until you move and have to recreate the whole machine, part by part. I have admiration, but little envy, for those who move frequently for jobs and service and such. Like untangling one thousand necklaces. The pandemic doesn’t help, of course.

All that is to say, I just cried while watching a video montage teachers at my kids’ new school made for the students, talking about how much they miss being together, and encouraging fortitude. I cried because they seem so warm…

Trigger Warning: sexual assault

In January, 2015, twenty-two year-old artist and writer, Chanel Miller, was unconscious when 19 year-old Brock Turner sexually assaulted her on the ground behind a fraternity house at Stanford University (Palo Alto, CA). In June, 2016, Turner was found guilty on all charges, and Ms. Miller addressed him in court at his sentencing, with a twelve-page statement she wrote from her court alias, ‘Emily Doe.’ The statement was published and went viral. In 2019, she published the memoir about her experience during those years and publicly married her alias and herself with, “Know My Name.



I’m giving myself some time off to gather up all the corners of me and shake the Sarah stuff back to the center again. I had gotten stretched out, bruised, spread thin, lost who I am at my core. I’m re-finding and re-defining her. TBD. ;)

Meanwhile, I am reading, watching, learning, resting. Hungry for art to teach me, excited to share what I learn.

I’ll drop a review of “Know my Name,” as soon as I’m done reading it- spoiler alert: it’s a stellar, must-read and I can’t believe Chanel Miller, the author…

Jo stared at the celery for a full fifteen seconds, trying to remember if she had to buy the organic kind to avoid her family growing tails. A whiny voice behind her started it’s “MoooOOOOOOOMMMMM” siren, and she closed her eyes for a beat before responding. What she wouldn’t give to shop alone. To have no kids complaining, begging, orbiting her like planets. She didn’t want to be anyone’s sun today. She was so tired. Tired of them. Tired of this. This…what? This routine? This role? This life? She just wanted to be left alone.

On cue, the guilty spoiled…

Here’s the acid shame that lives in my belly and flops like a fish up into my throat: I’m not making money, and therefore, I must be nothing.

For years now, since I quit my real job to become a writer, and also to raise some kids and a small food business, I’ve felt like I’m wandering off the path. And the path is there for a reason. The path is ambition; it’s money, prestige, bigger house, higher degree and title, more security, certainty, respect. It’s success, as we all know it and accept it.

To step off the path…

There are No Tricks and It’s All Impossible

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A dear friend sent me this this morning, because she could just feel through the winds that I needed reminding.

Parenting requires you to be your best, most patient, kind, introspective, peaceful self in the face of huge fear, uncertainty, and endless demands. Kids will bounce from screaming about their insufficient snacks to tearfully asking why bunnies die in less time than it takes to walk across the kitchen. There’s almost never time to catch your breath, to think, to answer thoughtfully before they’re on to something else. Your head spins chronically. You get used to feeling frantic, feeling wrong, feeling dumb, feeling out of control. Or, if you can get used to those feelings, you do better.

Deep down…

All Disasters, Please Line Up Single File Behind This Line

Lest anyone feel jealous about our fancy new Californian life, let me disclose some (very first-world, but still quite annoying) non-bliss-ness business:

Things started strong. Robb and the kids flew on New Year’s Day, with no delays, no terrorist attacks, no one melting down in the airport and licking the floor, and no strangers coughing directly into their mouths. Meanwhile, my mom, dog and I drove the 5 days cross-country, and did not get murdered even once in any of the Airbnb’s we rented, the dog did NOT vom, and we were not any of the several dozen cars and…

January, 2021 was the first time I’ve ever watched a presidential inauguration. Even the enormity of having our first Black president in 2008 didn’t convince me, in my late 20’s, to engage. I’ve always found politics boring and the power parade gross. But something has changed, in me, and in this country, in the past four years, and I‘m recognizing the harm (and privilege) in opting out, and my responsibility to opt in.

Plus, for this ceremony, this celebration, of Kamala Harris and Joe Biden being sworn in as VP and POTUS, I very much wanted and needed to watch…

This isn’t a threat. No need to worry about me abandoning or harming my kids or myself. I’m way too responsible and get too much self-esteem from being needed, but I do think it’s important that I express how much I don’t want any of this anymore.

I love my kids deeply. This isn’t a reflection on them as people. They are at or above average when it comes to being humans. It’s not them specifically that I’m balking at right now, it’s just the very idea of any kids that I’m rethinking. Like, I am glad they are here…

Sarah Zimmerman, Writer of Words

Frank and funny, Sarah writes the hard stuff of marriage, parenting, woman-ing. Ravishly, The Belladonna Comedy, Pregnant Chicken, & more. Twitter: @sarahzimzam

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