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June 2018

Thank you Bookmiser & The Milton Library

for including me in your North Atlanta Author Series on Saturday. It was a pleasure to sit in that beautiful room and talk books and life with such a welcoming and interested crowd.

And of course, a giant thanks to my friend Lisa Shore, a fellow writer and the Captain to my Tennille. Her thoughtful questions always guide me gracefully to a better conversation, and I remain profoundly grateful for her time and support.



New Gig

Excited to announce that I've been named Executive Director of the wonderful Decatur Writers Studio, where I've been teaching for a few years now. 

The official announcement follows below. Please like the Decatur Writers Studio on Facebook and visit the website for updates on teaching schedules. Fall lineup coming soon. Speaking of, any writers out there looking to teach a class, seminar or workshop, please message me here, through Facebook or email me directly.


The Decatur Writers Studio is pleased to welcome Zoe Fishman Shacham as Executive Director.

Fishman brings expertise as a writer, a teacher, and a publishing industry professional. She is the critically acclaimed author of the bestselling Inheriting Edith, Driving Lessons, Saving Ruth, and Balancing Acts. Her work is acclaimed as an IndieNext Pick, Target’s Breakout and Emerging Author Picks, a NY Post Pick, a Mom’s Choice Award, and a Barnes & Noble Hot Read.

Fishman worked in the editorial department of Random House, the rights department of Simon & Schuster, and as a literary agent for two boutique firms before moving to Atlanta in August of 2011 with her family. She teaches at The Decatur Writers Studio and in the Emory Continuing Education program and was Visiting Writer at SCAD Atlanta in Spring 2017. She is currently working on her next novel with Morrow.

Fishman can be reached through the Decatur Writers Studio Facebook page, and on The Decatur Writers Studio’s shared work space is located at 708 Church Street, just one block from Decatur Square and convenient to MARTA. A project of the Decatur Book Festival, DWS features a wide assortment of classes taught by acclaimed writers.


The Last Day


Today was the last full day of Ronen’s life, one year ago.

On June 1, 2017, Ronen was healthy. He picked up a new pair of glasses after work. He texted me to come meet him out, my parents had just come into town for Lev and my mother’s birthdays on the fourth and could have watched the kids, but I was too tired. I will always wish for the rest of my life that I had not been too tired. That we could have had one last night of just us, because they were so few and far between.

He came home, we ate dinner, we went to sleep, we woke up, he left for work and that was it. The last time I saw him alive, the last time the boys saw him ever.

I was granted the opportunity to write about Ronen in The Atlanta Journal Constitution in March. It was a gift, really, a cathartic gift even as hard as it was to be so publicly vulnerable.

Today, I wasn’t really sure that I had anything else to say. May and now June, and the waves of grief are pulling me, and everyone else who loved him under again. The sadness feels like a mac truck idling on my chest.

I sat with the boys at lunch this afternoon, a makeshift picnic on the floor, and we talked about all of the things we miss about Ronen, about Aba.

“I just miss everything”, said Lev solemnly. He will be three on Monday.

“Do you remember how he used to snap?” asked Ari.

“The best snaps,” I said.

“And clap!” said Lev, brightening. “The loudest claps!”

“The loudest,” Ari agreed. “Ema, how were they so loud?”

“He had the biggest, most beautiful hands,” I said. “Like yours.”

“And remember, he would take the biggest bites?” asked Lev.

“He loved apples and bananas,” Ari told Lev. “He always had a banana.”

We went back and forth like this for a while, their memories bittersweet for me. Because of course, they are just memories now. Ronen is gone. He has been gone a year. He has missed so much. And he will continue to miss and be missed for the rest of our lives.

This has happened. This is us.

When I think about Ari and Lev becoming young men, about telling friends and partners: My Aba died when I was five, and My Aba died right after I turned two, my heart implodes.

How unfair. And how completely and utterly unexpected, like a freight train barreling over you in the middle of a meadow.

But I also know, through the kindness and empathy others have shown, by the strength and resilience Ari and Lev have been able to personally summon, that the horror of this tragedy will not define them.

And that is something to be grateful for today, even as the mac truck refuses to budge. So I will be.