Everyone’s A Writer

Recently, while I was working very hard in a brand new position, for half the rate, I walked into the studio where The Talent was giving an interview. The Talent, sitting in front of a camera says to me: “Sarah. You know I love you, right?” I looked at the camera. Still recording. I said, “I sense a caveat.” “No,” he says, “You know I love you, right?” I just looked at him. I thought: “Do I?”


“These questions you wrote are (he smiles cruelly) not good.” “Well,” I said, “I’ve never written them before and I have gotten no notes.” “They’re not good,” he continued, “And I said it to you (points at the camera) on camera. So, you’ll see it in post.” Me and many other people. He nodded, pleased with himself.

I had been mulling staying another week because, after weeks of tears and misery, at noon of my last day, they had finally asked me to. I decided: “Well *I* won’t.”

At the end of the day they decided another piece of my writing was also “not good.” “Ok, how would you like me to change it?” “I don’t know. Just fix it.” So, I had The Talent rewrite it. It was fucking awful but I handed it to the EP and hooked my thumb at The Talent, “He ok’d it. He approved it.” She pressed her lips together and nodded. I walked out.

Everyone’s a writer.

Another Thing I Cannot Do

Every once in a while I dip a toe into online dating. I’ve had three dates in as many forays. Two were so “meh” neither I, nor the two men I had a quick lunch with, bothered to contact each other again after.

The third guy I saw twice. We emailed and texted enthusiastically for a few days and made casual plans to meet on a Friday night. The morning after our first meeting, a quick coffee with chatting and connection and quick peck goodnight, he texted me with a nice to meet you. Also, we had been standing there a bit awkwardly before parting because he had been waiting for an invitation back to my place.


He told me I was aggressive but I couldn’t remember one signal I sent that might have been interpreted as: Nice to meet you. Sex?


We texted a lot more and I tried to dial back and find the balance between flirting and overtly sexual. We scheduled a second meeting for the next weekend– wine at his apartment– but I backed out because I wasn’t comfortable with what I felt was intense intimacy with someone I barely knew. He got irked and asked me “What’s your deal, anyway?”

We talked it out and decided to try again. We had a quiet glass of wine at his place. No pressure. I had a nice time, we talked about making future plans. He gave me a quick kiss and I left pleased, relaxed and wanting more.

Then I didn’t hear from him. The next Friday I texted him to see if he had weekend plans and might want to do something fun together. He suggested it was better if we both moved on. The next texted exchange went like this:

Me: Wow. Ok, then.

Me: I have a lot to learn about this internet dating rhythm.

Him: Yes you do.


I deleted him from my existence.

I felt sad, rejected and frustrated and tried to figure out what I did wrong, said wrong; was there something he said or did that I missed or did I insult him accidentally? I couldn’t think of anything. I tried to learn from the exchange in order to not make the same mistakes again. There’s a specific language and dance to internet dating. I would figure it out.

Then I had another thought, a sentiment that has freed me from myself on several occasions: Perhaps being good at internet dating is not a skill I want to master.

I am a solid and dedicated friend. I am a supportive, committed and loving girlfriend. I have a high threshold and determination when met with struggle. I find it easy to compromise and find solutions. I am inclined to let people be themselves and try to adjust within reason.

But I don’t get There easily. And because I don’t get There easily I don’t leave There easily. I am dogged in love relationships, perhaps causing us both undue stress when they have failed, but it’s who I am and a sacrifice I’m willing to make because I think the benefits outweigh the risks.

Internet dating doesn’t demand patience. In fact, in my experience it fosters the opposite. It’s dating instant gratification and since, evidently, I didn’t take my date home the first night and I, admittedly, have trust issues, it seemed to be self-evident to him that I wasn’t worth the effort.

a ruined temple

It doesn’t matter
Where in my
I fall asleep

I wake up on
Your side

Seeking you
In my

Like I
In my

It’s not even mine

Once a possessively held
It’s now your bed

I borrow it
Furtively and

And move away
From it
Stealing a sidelong glance
Of where you


a glass silhouette


I’ve been
Thinking of

And the
Thinking of
Makes me

I’m afraid to
Move too
Turn too

Fear of
Dashing myself

I’m a glass
Silhouette of

I’m afraid
Everyone can
See right

For just the
Things I still
Feel for

very early, new year’s day

It was very early when you

Returned your set of
To my

You had to walk past my parked
Car to reach it

Did you pause?
Did you reach to unlock my gate?
Knowing I was
Curled up

You know how I
Hands cradling
Each other and my cheek
Face relaxed
Breath soft
Dark Locks
Spilling across my pillow

Were you tempted
In the least
Let yourself in
Enter my bedroom and
Tuck in behind my

Or did you just drop the
Nod or

And merely


  • Between your
  • Black and your
  • White
  • Between your right and
  • Wrong your
  • Yes and your
  • No
  • Lies
  • Grey
  • Compassion
  • Maybe
  • People


In the
“I hear you.
“I hear your worries and fears.
“I see your scars and your tears.
“I see you.”
In the
Grey is
Love, is
“I believe you.” Is
Acceptance, is
Possibility, is
Imagination, and
Beauty and attempt and failure and
In grey is

i cannot throw a frisbee

There are two things in the world I cannot do.

I am highly accomplished. I am tenacious and confident. I have walked on five continents.


I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I can dance. I can sing a little. I can pick out a song on the piano. I can bowl. I can play volleyball, basketball, soccer. I can throw darts, I can play pool. I ran Track in high school. I can even throw a discus.

I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I love heights. I’ve been skydiving. I am afraid of the water, but I am an accomplished SCUBA diver. I love to hike, to camp, to play on the beach. I like to run and to swim, though I’m not very good at either of them.

I cannot throw a Frisbee.

I can draw, I can write, I can lead, I can follow. I can solve puzzles, untangle necklaces, beat you at card games. I can care for children, I can settle disputes. I can say no. I can say yes. I make an equally good martini as strawberry-rhubarb pie. I almost always know which utensil to use.

I can make speeches. I can give toasts. I can bring the best out in people.

I am a good friend. A good sister. A good aunt. I volunteer. I tithe.

And yet, there are two things I cannot do: I cannot throw a Frisbee.

And I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.

Yes, I come from a broken home. Many times over. Yes, I grew up without my father. Yes, my mother was neglectful and/or abusive.

I can do almost anything. Well. I’ve even been in therapy so I could do everything better. I cannot be denied the things I truly want to do. And still:

I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.

I have dated accomplished musicians, painters, athletes, computer whizzes. Combinations of all of the above. Almost all of them have spoken multiple languages. They have all been well educated, well read. Smart, funny, handsome, charming. Passionate. They’ve all been inherently wrong for me. I’ve loved them all ruthlessly.

I will never be able to throw a Frisbee. I just can’t do it. I can’t make my hand do what it needs to do. I clutch at it clumsily. It whips hard and then slams into the ground. And then it bounces and, ultimately, rolls far away. Sometimes I just watch it go. Sometimes I chase after it, embarrassed.  And then I walk away apologetically after gently refusing a lesson. Thank you, really, but it won’t help. Trust me.

Let’s play a different game, shall we?