Scraps

I have many thoughts, some probably better elsewhere, about Aaron Kreuter’s attempt at decolonizing Canadian Jewish literature. (So-called Canadian, he might say; he refers to himself as living in “so-called Canada” and to Theodor Herzl as the “so-called father of political Zionism.” So called and they want their lack of throat-clearing back, comes to mind.)

But what I’m most stuck on is this: “There is currently no room in the Jewish literary establishment for work that sees Palestinians as human, their grievances as legitimate, their oppression horrific, their resistance justified.” I found myself wondering what entity or individual, real or imagined, he’s referring to here by “the Jewish literary establishment.” There are a handful of entities covering new Canadian Jewish literature and one of them is yours truly. And I am asking: where are the books? The ones he’s unhappy with or wants to see. Where are they?

There is no meaningful field, new Canadian Jewish literature. You are grasping at Canadianness and Jewishness. Someone’s third uncle twice removed had possible Jewish ancestors and did spring break one year in Montreal. The idea that this is a vibrant field boosting some and maliciously suppressing others (note: Kreuter himself has been a finalist for a Canadian Jewish literary award!) seems the stuff of conspiracy.

For there to be an unfair playing field for Canadian Jewish literary writers, there would need to be a playing field. And here’s something I did recently, for work: I looked at the names of every new book coming out in Canada (not only Canadian publishers) within a set number of months. Do you know how many of these books are Canadian Jewish literature? How does ‘none’ strike you? Because that’s how many we’re looking at. There are not red-triangle-emoji novels nor vote-Conservative-for-Israel novels. No novels, no books of poetry, no short stories, no coloring books or cookbooks or LSAT review guides, no nothing.

Intrigued as I am by the idea that I’m sitting on my lofty mandate to cover new Canadian Jewish literature for non-academic audiences as possibly the only staffer anywhere charged with this task, and am ignoring those of one political bent in favo(u)r of another, boosting only the ones that hit my precise and idiosyncratic spot(s) on the political spectrum, this is a scarcity issue. There are no books there are no book reviews there are no books sections in newspapers there’s no nothing.

I was thinking about all of this in light of Freddie deBoer’s post about a debut novelist (but not debut author) getting more attention than did his own novel. He refers to the publicity cycle this novel I had gulp not heard of had received as “a very good example of a coordinated media campaign that has been, to some degree and in some way, orchestrated from above.”

Becca Rothfeld, Washington Post book critic, has doubts that conspiracies are afoot: “I work in book reviewing, and I've never seen it. You'd think that someone like me would get included in the conspiracy or at least receive a memo on occasion, but no, it's been crickets.” Leigh Stein suggests, persuasively, that this is not a complicated conspiracy about who has which connections, or even about her being a popular young woman good at networking, but rather the simple matter of one of these people being a young woman, the other a middle-aged man: “Madeline Cash is being launched into the stratosphere as a new talent because she is, well, new. Freddie deBoer has been publishing writing on the internet for twenty years.” This has a harsh truth to it (said with affection for Leigh and Freddie; I myself have been publishing writing on the internet for 22 years.)

The counterpoint here, the case for conspiracy theorizing, comes from… yes a rerun. (What else?)

On And Just Like That, the terrible SATC remake, Carrie has written a memoir based on the time when Big died by Peloton. She’s trying to get people to pay attention to her new book, also working as a podcaster. (TV jobs, so unrealistic. Who does that for a living? Wait.) Anyway Carrie wants Murphy Brown to feature her memoir in her (Murphy Brown’s) newsletter, but Murphy wants none of it. She does however want Carrie to donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to The Human Fund. (To some endeavor I forget what, so I’m using the George-Costanza-invented one as placeholder.) Carrie, postmenopausal (but not old, don’t call her old) girlboss, says she will do this if Murphy writes up the Big-is-dead memoir in the newsletter. The art, of the deal.

I should not have watched this episode. I came away from it convinced that the game is rigged. That my own forthcoming book (THE LAST STRAIGHT WOMAN out May 19! PLEASE PREORDER) will suffer for my having not given whichever 80-something book influencer hundreds of thousands of American dollars as a bribe. Not even anything systemic to do with my identity. Simply, I’m not even at the parties where people are shaking other people down for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Je despaired.