Frum N' Flipping

  This is the story of how I wrote my novel. Now that I have a (fabulous, wonderful) agent , I feel I can finally say – I did it! I wrote a book! Even though, why should we wait for affirmation from others? If you’ve written a book, and feel satisfied with it, celebrate it now! Even though perhaps I’m being premature, because what if no editor likes my story and it languishes unpublishable on my Google drive? But it is a book. And people (unrelated strangers!) have read and liked it. And heck, I’ll say it, I’ve read and it and been very proud of myself, in that "did I really write that?" way. Anyway, back to the story-   I wrote a novel, and this is the story of that story. 15 years ago, when I was a single serial-Shidduch-dates (think Faye on Jewish Matchmaking style Shidduch dates), I used to blog about girl-going-on-arranged-matches-with-yeshiva-students who balances that with being a woman-software-engineer-in-hi-tech. I flittered between 2 worlds, every day, a...

Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman, means hearing other people talk about me like I’m a fish in an aquarium. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means being told by Ultra-Orthodox male politicians that I am not interested in having women representing me in government. That I should vote for men, and they know best. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech, means working for 15+ years, holding a graduate degree, and still hearing secular men, professors of sociology, lecturing in conferences about promoting my participation in the workforce, like I am some kind of science project. Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman in Hi-Tech married to a Kollel student means paying taxes, but reading in Facebook comments that I’m a parasite. Because somehow, despite feminism, households with stay-at-home-moms are fine, but heaven forbid the mother should be the one working, not the father.  Being an Ultra-Orthodox woman means paying city taxes and school tuition, and sending my children to study in caravans instea...

It’s a funny thing, how those moments that change your life slip up on you, discordant chords in the rhythm of life, that inflate into a storm. Putting my barbie dolls in their drawer, coming downstairs for supper, my parents telling me, happily, like it’s a good thing, that we will be making Aliyah to Israel in the spring time. As if that didn’t mean leaving my home, with the rose bushes in the front lawn where I posed every year in my birthday dress, and the pair of trees in the back where my big brother kept promising to build me a tree house when he came home from Yeshiva, and the ancient trampoline where I could lie spread eagled and count the clouds, the weedy grass where I picked daisies in the summer,  the shul where the old man gave me raisins in a red Sun-Maid box. As if Aliyah didn’t mean leaving my friends, the complicated school yard games we had been leading since before we could remember, of who’s-who’s best friend, and hide and seek, fairies and witches, and ru...

This story of mine appeared in Mishpacha's Sukkos Calligraphy.  It's one of my favorite stories so far, so I wanted to share it with you guys too. It came under a lot of fire from Mishpacha readers, and I'm interested to hear what you have to say. I am a woman, at last. I look at my face, enveloped by the wavy brown sheitel .  The wig frames my narrow cheekbones; the pony masks my too high forehead. I turn my head from side to side and enjoy the swish of the silken mane. I look like any other young woman, young married woman. "How much is this one?" I ask. "Ah, you chose one of our best pieces. A hundred percent European hair, soft and silky. You have good taste" Many would suck in their breath when she names the figure; I don’t. I'm prepared for the expense. I've been waiting for this day for years, too many years to count. Not in this way, no, my dreams were more fantastic, but this will have to do. "I'll take it" I say. ...

I have time. Four weeks to be precise. Wonderful beatiul amazing vacation. The reason? I quit my job. Don’t worry, I made sure first that I had a new job to go to. I'm ever concious of being the sole breadwinner of the house. But I carved out for myself this month of blessed freedom in between jobs. “To Write.” I said. So I didn’t make plans, didn’t even commit to woking on the thesis that’s haunted me all year, freed up my diary and my days for one mission, to finish my book. I have the most time on my hands since I started working, after college. That was a long long time ago.  I had big plans. But so far I’ve read at least ten novels, gone to the pool, slep till midday, basically did everything except write. The irony.

We are bumping along in the airport shuttle bus, my hand luggage clutched on my knee.  “I’m so glad we are flying EL AL” I say happily. “The way to the states was such a nightmare with Iberia” (who knew it takes 30 hours to fly from Tel Aviv to Madrid?) TCO just nods. Men are like that. “Next time we are flying ELAL both ways. I can’t handle a connecting flight again. Besides, their service is so much better.” Famous last words. If life was a movie, dramatic music would have been playing in the background at this point                                _________ “Flying has really changed” I say to TCO, pulling out a folded pieced of paper from my purse. “Remember when you had to go to the travel agent and he’d give you a little plastic pouch with tickets that were blue ink booklets?” Little did I know that I would soon be longing for those days. Oh, sweet 90s. _________ We h...