When did writing Jewish kidlit become an act of resistance?
What’s the value of Jewish narratives at a time when it feels like no one is listening?
Since 7 October it feels like, as Jewish creatives, we’re all screaming into a void or, at best, an echo chamber.
The last picture book manuscript I sent to my agent was about a turtle that celebrates Shabbat – sort of. There’s an ongoing war, there are 136 hostages (some no longer living), terror attacks against Jews have been plotted all over the world, antisemitism is rampant – and I’m writing about a turtle?
It’s hard to navigate the upside down world that we’re living in.
I stepped away from kidlit temporarily to focus on my family and fighting antisemitism because that’s what felt right at the time. I wrote letters to the editor of the local paper. I posted on social media. I went to Rome to meet the pope (and think I also found a picture book idea or two while I was there) and helped raise the issue of antisemitism and the hostages while I was there.
I felt guilty about taking small pleasures like creative writing in a world where there’s so much pain and suffering. Writing anything outside of opinion pieces and petitions felt trivial.
After finally hugging my children in Israel, I recently submitted my first manuscript to my agent in months. It’s been in my head for a long time, but getting it down onto ‘paper’ was a struggle.
And now I guess I’m back to trying to put more Jewish stories out into the world. I’m writing about turtles and rabbis and trumpets and children and wolves. Writing these stories is now an act of resistance. Maybe no one will read them and maybe only Jewish children will, but I’m going to keep on writing. There are discouraging articles about the future of publishing for Jewish authors. What I said in relation to awards and reviews is applicable here. I can’t control the reaction to my work once it’s out in the world. I can only continue to produce art that I’m proud of and that matters to me.
So, I’m logging new story ideas with Storystorm. I’m going back to my critique group for the first time in months. I’m picking up my middle grade manuscript and starting to work on revising it again. I even picked up etegami again.
I think back to a conversation with my mother from many years ago. For context, I grew up in a household with the rule, common among many other Jewish families, that anything German was banned. My mother loved Chanel perfume. When I told her that Coco Chanel was a Nazi collaborator, she responded, “I don’t want to hear it. Haven’t they taken enough from us already? This is my pleasure. I’m not letting it go.”
I have stories to tell. October 7 can’t take that from me so I spray myself with my mother’s Chanel perfume and begin to type away. I’m writing those Jewish stories. There’s a child out there waiting for that very story that I have in my heart. They matter. Our stories matter.
This is my pleasure. This is my passion. This is my mission. I’m not letting it go.
