It’s that time of year...chocolates, flowers, jewelry. Sappy advertisements and red and pink store displays. There are reminders everywhere. It’s Valentine’s Day.
Sure, it’s a bit commercial (understatement) but it’s all good. We know that. It’s beautiful to celebrate love.
But what about if you don't have a special someone or even your favorite chocolate already lined up for a great Thursday night? (Or perhaps you have a loving companion but you've somehow lost yourself in the relationship.) Whatever the reason, this day, with its cards and balloons, candy hearts and kitsch, is turning your mood fifty shades of a rather abysmal gray. Instead of bringing you a great sense of joy and intimacy, this so-called celebration feels more about absence or loss. And over the course of a day that seems to have somehow overlooked your very own precious self, you find yourself thinking, “I don’t have a valentine.”
To which we respond, what do you mean you don’t have a valentine?
Of course you have a valentine.
Walk right into the bathroom. Grab a hold of the sink and look up. Yours will be right there waiting, looking you straight in the punim.
Even if you feel very alone at times, you always have a valentine. It’s you.
That’s right. No matter who is or isn’t in your life, you are your own ultimate bashert.
And naturally, you’re fabulous. How lucky you are to have you for a valentine.
Because when you’re very your own valentine, you can celebrate any way you want.
How romantic it would be to buy yourself one perfect red rose. Not a whole bouquet. Just one perfectly closed bud representing your love for yourself. Take this vulnerable darling home and place it in a vase. All it needs is just a little bit of water.
Over the course of a few hours, watch your flower bloom as a symbol of you opening up to the undying expression of your own self love, showing yourself the greatest kindness, compassion and understanding, no matter what life brings.
Choose a song that opens your heart, and helps you dream a little dream, and dance with yourself. That’s right, ignite your own boogie fever. Don’t worry what it looks like. There are no rules here. You don’t even have to watch.
Yes, it's scary to be vulnerable. Even to yourself. But it’s also easy to be your own best valentine, the kind that promises extreme self care, extreme self empathy, extreme self respect. Because when you truly love yourself, every day is Valentine’s Day.
So when you're ready, grab a pen and some paper, or maybe even some broken crayons, and make yourself a good old fashioned valentine. That’s right, make some vows to yourself, to be true to yourself, and be your most authentic self. If you find yourself suddenly tongue tied, feel free to borrow these “Marriage Vows to Me” taken straight from the pages of my book, Hot Mamalah.
It’s true, Valentine’s Day is a celebration of sweethearts. Of relationships. Of your chocolate tooth. We're not denying that. But that doesn't mean it can't also be about celebrating the sweetness of your own life and the most intimate relationship you always have, the one with yourself. Isn't it about time you commit to love, honor and cherish?
Now go on. Get real with yourself and bring a little romance to your game. Valentine’s Day with yourself is EVERY day, forevermore.
That certainly sounds like a great romance to me.
Mazal tov, now you’re a hot mamalah!
How do you know you're a hot mamalah?
Because you don't have to work hard to be hot. You just have to be you. Your most authentic self is the hottest thing of all.
How can you be sure you’re a hot mamalah?
Because a hot mamalah loves and respects herself.
How can you be positively certain you’re a hot mamalah?
Because a real mamalah is her own best valentine, today and every day.
And when you wake up the morning after, how do you remember you're a hot mamalah?
You. Just. Do.
Happy Valentine’s Day, You!
Lisa Alcalay Klug is the author of Hot Mamalah: The Ultimate Guide for Every Woman of the Tribe and Cool Jew: The Ultimate Guide for Every Member of the Tribe.Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Forward and many other publications. Visit her online at lisaklug.com.Twitter @lisaklug | Facebook.com/lisaalcalayklug.
Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter
It's been two years since a Valentine's Day edition of JBC Bookshelf. In 2011, we highlighted six titles. Today, we highlight a wide-range of titles from JBC past. Whether your love is a city, a meal, an individual, an animal, or an idea, we're confident that you'll find at least one title below to warm your heart this Valentine's Day:
Heart of the City: Nine Stories of Love and Serendipity on the Streets of New York, Ariel Sabar (2011, Da Capo Press)
Ariel Sabar explores nine real-life urban romances, each set against the backdrop of an iconic New York City public space
Paris: A Love Story, Kati Marton (2012, Simon & Schuster)
Kati Marton’s newest memoir is a candid exploration of many kinds of love, as well as a love letter to the city of Paris itself
Until Our Last Breath: A Holocaust Story of Love and Partisan Resistance, Michael Bart and Laurel Corona (2008, St. Martin's Press)
A love story that flourished despite the privations of the Ghetto and the partners’ disparate ages and social status
Crossing the Borders of Time: A True Story of War, Exile, and Love Reclaimed, Leslie Maitland (2012, Other Press)
Leslie Maitland traces the love story of two young people caught up in war-torn France
Some Girls, Some Hats and Hitler: A True Love Story Rediscovered, Trudy Kanter (2012, Scribner)
Trudi Kanter relates the emotional roller coaster she was on in attempting to get to England with her parents and the love of her life
A Titanic Love Story: Ida and Isidor Straus, June Hall McCash (2012, Mercer University Press)
June Hall McCash tells the story of Ida and Isidor Straus, who went to their deaths together on the maiden voyage of the Titanic
If You Awaken Love, Emuna Elon (2007, Toby Press)
A story of unrequited love set in Israel
The Making of Henry, Howard Jacobson (2004, Anchor Books)
A surprising love story involving a sympathetic shiksa and a Henry Nagel's dog
The Lost Wife, Alyson Richman (2011, Berkley)
A powerful love story set in Prague as World War II begins
Shosha: A Novel, Isaac Bashevis Singer (1978, Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
Shosha is a hauntingly lyrical love story set in Jewish Warsaw on the eve of its annihilation
All Other Nights, Dara Horn (2009, W. W. Norton & Company)
An intelligent love story set during the Civil War
Aimée & Jaguar: A Love Story, Berlin 1943, Erica Fischer (1998, Alyson Books)
A unique and tragic love story between two women, set against the Holocaust
Dinner: A Love Story, Jenny Rosenstrach (2012, HarperCollins)
This is a love story about one woman, a family and a ritual
The Brisket Book: A Love Story with Recipes, Stephanie Pierson (2011, Andrews McMeel Publishing)
More than “just” a cookbook, The Brisket Book, includes stories, jokes, cartoons, and photographs
Is it possible to take the ego out of writing?
I ask this question because I ask myself why I write, and why so many people write, and why writing has quite literally taken over our society – you cannot blink without someone Tweeting, Tumbling, Facebooking, blogging, Yelping, product rating, movie reviewing, book eviscerating. Just think about the last time you wanted to buy a toaster. You went on Amazon or some other site, and there, for each of the two hundred different toasters were two hundred individual comments, some many paragraphs long, by people apparently passionate enough about their toasters to write about them, and people, like me, stupid enough to read them and have them sway my judgment. (In the end, and based on countless reviews, I ended up with a toaster I hate – Calphalon 4-slot model 1779207, two stars at most!)
But were these people passionate about their toasters or simply passionate about the fact that someone might read their opinions? Are we Tweeting to say something important or to simply assert our existence?
We all know the answer. But what about those of us who write fiction – what’s in it for us?
If I were to sit down and write without ego, that would mean first, that I don’t care about publication, and second, that I care only for the text itself and not how it reflects on me. I might wish someone to read it, but I wouldn't write it with any reader in mind. In a sense, I would be daring someone to read it: this is what it is, take it or leave it – not only do I not care about your opinion, but you should in fact have no opinion.
(Of course, I actually do hope you have an opinion of my new novel, The Wanting — 4 stars would be nice).
And yet there are moments in writing when the ego does flee. I began The Wanting by writing a story within a story within a story – it wasn't a conscious decision, it just happened that one story would suggest another, time would shift back and forth, and the whole thing felt like an onion unraveling and re-raveling – and I loved it. I wrote fairy tales and back-stories and short stories and fantastical voyages of the mind. In one case I had someone remembering a scene from childhood in which he was remembering something from earlier childhood in which he was remembering something from even earlier childhood. It was wonderful.
And then I gave it to an editor.
Her response was succinct: “Huh?” To which she added, “Can’t follow it. Too many digressions. Where’s the plot? By the time I got back to the action I’d forgotten where I was.”
I should have screamed, “So what?” That is what the real writer would do.
But what I actually did was edit the book.
Built up the plot, cut back on the complications (“self indulgences” are what writing instructors call them), and in general began taking my audience seriously.
You might say that this is the act of someone without a lot of self-regard – to place the reader first is an act of submission. But that is not so. Publication, successful publication in which you reach a large, intelligent readership and having a meaningful affect on that readership – these are worthy outcomes, yes, but they are also certainly the goals of ego.
I’m not saying anything’s wrong with that. We can only communicate using language people can understand.
But isn't something lost? Something pure and powerful and difficult and terrifying?
I honestly do think my book is better for all the rewriting and rethinking and re-imagining that happened after that first (600 page!) draft. Much better.
And it’s still not a simple read – at least I hope not.
But oh how I miss sharing with you the story about Ekim Efiv and the Bird Sorcerer, the tale of How X Escaped the Gulag and Ended Up in Our Backyard, and the memory within the memory within the memory that stood time on its head for a few dozen pages of my life.
Although who knows, maybe I’ll post them on Facebook.
Michael Lavigne's first novel, Not Me, was the recipient of the Sami Rohr Prize Choice Award. His newest novel, The Wanting, will be published by Schocken Books on February 26th. Visit Michael on Facebook and visit his official website here.
Posted by Naomi Firestone-Teeter
Originally published in Hebrew in Israel in 2010, The Girl With a Brave Heart: A Tale from Tehran (Rita Jahanforuz; Vali Mintzi, illus.) tells the story of a young girl growing up in Tehran. Barefoot Books will publish the title in English in March.
View past "Book Cover of the Week" posts here.
Jewish Book Council mourns the loss of Rabbi David Hartman who died Sunday following a long illness. Rabbi Hartman won two National Jewish Book Awards. The first in 1977 for his work Maimonides: Torah and Philosophic Quest and the second in 1986 for A Living Covenant: The Innovative Spirit in Traditional Judaism.
Read more about Rabbi Hartman's work:
Michael Lavigne's first novel, Not Me, was the recipient of the Sami Rohr Prize Choice Award. His newest novel, The Wanting, will be published by Schocken Books on February 26th. Visit Michael on Facebook and visit his official website here. He will be blogging here all week for Jewish Book Council and MyJewishLearning.
In my first novel, I wrote from the point of view of a Nazi. In my new novel, The Wanting, I’ve taken on the persona of a suicide bomber from a village outside of Bethlehem. And while this character, Amir, is only one of three distinct voices in the book, his was the most painful to write and the most difficult to come to terms with. On the one hand, he murders scores of people – unconscionable and terrifying. On the other, he is also a person, not a monster. It is that person within him I was trying to access in my writing – but did I succeed? And should I have even tried?
My friend and fellow writer Jonathan Rosen (Joy Comes in the Morning, The Life of the Skies) has some doubts on this score. He wondered if I had created a moral equivalency between the victim (in this case the Russian Jewish immigrant, Roman Guttman) and the victimizer (Amir). I hope Jonathan won’t mind if I quote from his email:
“…my fear [is] that Jewish imaginative sympathy sometimes runs the risk of secretly being narcissism disguised as empathy, as we project the better angels of our nature outward in the name of human understanding and then have a dialogue with ourselves. German Jews did it with Germans, as Gershom Scholem argued so persuasively about Buber — I and Thou is sometimes Me and Me.”
This, of course, begs the question of fiction writing in general – but without addressing that (and Jonathan himself told me he genuinely thinks writers should be free to attempt anything and everything) I have to admit his misgivings give me pause. What is it we do when we write about the radical other, especially when this other has declared itself our mortal enemy and feels empowered to use any means, no matter how repugnant, to achieve its aim. Is it merely an exercise in vanity, a sort of hope against hope – wishing away the truth of the barbarity which confronts us?
I struggled with this from the onset. Just doing the research was painful in the extreme. Like poking at a sore, I had to read page after page of vitriol aimed at Jews and Israelis. The writings and rantings of mullahs and radical Islamists throughout the Muslim world frightened me, and our history reminds me it is wise to be frightened. My conversations with Palestinians and Israeli Arabs were of course less rife, but an underlying fury was never very far from the surface. I did not feel safe. Add to that the painful and inevitable realization of our own (my own) responsibility for the suffering and thwarted ambition of Palestinian people, and you can see how complex things became for me. Fear and guilt. Never a good place to write from.
So it’s not surprising that my first characterizations of Amir were flat and lifeless: in turns he was demonic, hate-crazed, and otherworldly – a kind of poet of cruelty – in others he was comic and buffoonish, a mindless machine of vengeance. I was stuck, and it was not until my Israeli reader, Michal Evron Yaniv, said, quite simply, “Just make him a person,” that I was reminded that my task as a novelist is to render all my characters with empathy – an empathy that extends throughout this awful symphony of life. And I fully admit that in the end I did perversely fall in love with Amir, because I came to see that he, too, is a victim – not so much of the Israeli occupation as of his own limited experience and the agenda of powerful forces far beyond his control or ability to understand.
I believe I’ve created a vital and living character who demands our attention and rewards our reading in a book I hope papers over nothing while attending to the thing that matters most: the human spirit.
But should there be limits to a writer’s empathy?
I welcome your comments.
Check back all week for more posts by Michael Lavigne.
Zi kholmt – she dreams.
In Irena Klepfisz’s remarkable poem, “Etlekhe verter oyf mame-loshn / A few words in the mother tongue,” the speaker presents different female identities in the form of a Yiddish vocabulary list. The poem toggles seamlessly between Yiddish and English, but gradually, the bilingualism of the middle stanzas gives way to a series of incantations solely in the mame-loshn of Yiddish.
Here is Klepfisz’s haunting final refrain:
She dreams / she dreams / she dreams. What strikes me about these verses? The insistent female pronoun, zi; the fact that the poem has shifted irrevocably into Yiddish; the notion that a poem all about language ends with a verb not indicating speaking or singing, but rather, dreaming.
When I have been most immersed in learning a language, I have begun to dream in that tongue. It happened to me in Israel when I was studying Hebrew intensively, and when I was taking Hebrew-only grad seminars. And it happened to me during my YIVO summers, too. These dreams were vivid and surprising. I recall myself speaking and hearing others speak, and being quite conscious within the dream of the linguistic situation. Never, to my knowledge, did I break the spell and begin to talk in English instead.
Languages permeate our beings, our psyches, our worldviews. Cognitive psychologists and sociolinguists tell us that languages directly impact how we construct reality. The way we perceive and remember our lives can be linked to the grammar of our mother tongues.
And somehow, through a complex combination of synapses, signals, and syntax, languages can shape the hyper-reality of dream space, too.
To sleep: perchance to dream . . . in Yiddish.
Dr. Hannah S. Pressman is the co-editor, with Lara Rabinovitch and Shiri Goren, of Choosing Yiddish: New Frontiers of Language and Culture. She is the editor of stroumjewishstudies.org and affiliate faculty for the University of Washington’s Stroum Jewish Studies Program.
Steve Stern's most recent collection, The Book of Mischief, was published in September 2012 by Graywolf Press.
Steve Stern is, in my opinion, the best under-recognized American Jewish writer currently writing. Many, many reviewers hoped that his most recent novel, the wonderful, lyrically written, and hysterically funny The Frozen Rabbi, would do much to bring him the larger readership his writing deserves. And now, with the publication of his tenth book, new and selected stories with the spot-on title, The Book of Mischief, his literary admirers can keep hoping those who have not yet read him will run to their bookstore or electronic reader and do so. I first came across his work in 1999 when The Wedding Jester was published. Something in the review I read of it made me want to run out to buy the book; when I did I spent the next week neglecting my academic work and reading to devour the collection. At the start of a summer supposed to be dedicated to academic articles, I realized that this was what I wanted to do, write stories not articles—I lay the blame for my current writing life squarely with Stern. Since then I have read everything by Stern that I can to access his world of acrobats and jesters, Catskills hangers on, and rabbis resuscitated from the Old World come to remake the New.
Stern’s oeuvre is uniquely connected to place, from the Pinch neighborhood of Memphis of his birth to stories set in both the Lower East Side and the Catskills as well as the Europe of a past imagined by the author. I had the pleasure of meeting him to discuss the writing life and his new book at a café near where he makes his home in Brooklyn, when he is not teaching at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY. On the day we were to meet, I took the subway but was unsure if I had the right stop and had to take another bus to a stop closer to where we were meeting, and then continually ask a number of people directions to the Qathra coffee bar. The day seemed grim and I was late so I was sure the author would have given up and abandoned his post at the front of the coffee bar, hardcover in hand. However, some kind of magic worked and he was there, the sun came out and our conversation was a wonderful literary experience, transporting beyond the surroundings, as is fitting for a writer fascinated by flight and trapeze artists.Continue Reading