What I'd Say to J.K. Rowling

Hi. I’m Kressel Housman, a middle-aged Orthodox Jewish woman pursuing a lifelong dream of becoming a professional writer. My fanfic is available under the section of this Substack called “The Princess Maid,” and I’ve posted hundreds of book reviews on Goodreads, but if I’m going to tell you my story, I want to start with J.K. Rowling. I spent the better part of this Tuesday binge-listening to the excellent new podcast about her rift with the trans community. It was so thought-provoking, I was inspired to begin this Substack.

The creator of the podcast is Megan Phelps-Roper, a former member of the Westboro Baptist Church, famous for protesting at funerals carrying utterly hateful placards.

Megan broke free from the church and is now an advocate for compassionate dialogue. Communicating with people of different worldviews is what helped her transition away. She learned first-hand that heated rhetoric doesn’t change minds. It only alienates people and drives them apart. Here she is in her own words.

Bridging divides takes patience and good will. And so, in that spirit, she waded into the acrimonious controversy surrounding Jo Rowling.

The podcast begins with the voices of on-the-street Harry Potter fans describing why they fell in love with the series. Fan after fan said that they identified with Harry and his friends, misfits and underdogs who came together to defeat forces of hate. The books gave hope and healing to kids facing all sorts of tough challenges. Kids with dyslexia became avid readers because the story was so riveting. Fan-turned-actress Evanna Lynch said the books helped her through her eating disorder. And as the podcast made clear, the online fan community was full of LGBTQ kids who got strength from Harry, too.

I was in my thirties when I discovered Harry Potter, so even though I related Harry and his vulnerabilities, what inspired me most was Jo Rowling’s “Cinderella” story. She was a single Mom, raising her daughter in a dumpy bed-sit in Edinburgh, perpetually scrambling for money. I was an unhappily married Mom, raising my three sons in a cramped two-bedroom in Brooklyn. We, too, were perpetually scrambling for money. Rent in New York is notoriously high, so while we were living in the cheapest apartment we could find, we could barely afford anything else. I had to wear hand-me-down clothes and second-hand wigs. Our most frequent dinner was spaghetti and salmon croquettes. A 14-ounce can of salmon cost less than two dollars. They were always on sale because nobody else would buy them. To this day, my two eldest sons won’t touch salmon, even the fresh, high-quality kind.

Bear Mountain State Park, circa 2005

As a Hasidic Jew, I was culturally different than Jo, but not as foreign as you might think. For one thing, I wasn’t raised Hasidic; I married in. So I grew up pretty much in the same modern world that she did. We’re of the same generation. She was born at the end of July 1965, and I was born at the end of March 1968. But the deepest similarity between us was the dream of being a writer.

Anyone who loves to write, whether famous or not, knows that it’s a core identity. My writing is as central to my life as my religion. I wrote my very first book at age five, “John Goes to the Doctor,” working through my own biggest fear. Later I wrote a sequel about the birth of his sister Cindy. My family praised me like I was a little genius. The answer to the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” soon became “An author.”

In school, I got encouragement from some of my teachers, particularly Mrs. Brown in fifth grade. She praised me so much, she made me believe in my own talent. I was pretty shy in school, both in class and on the schoolyard, so I didn’t get noticed very often. I guess I was starved for compliments. At the end of the school year, when Mrs. Brown had to choose the two best writers in class to participate in a schoolwide journal with the sixth graders, I was one of the two chosen. Unfortunately, my peers didn’t like my contribution, so it wasn’t included in the journal.

“I heard your story was stupid,” said my so-called best friend.

Naturally, Mrs. Brown was much kinder. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Being in the group was a good experience for you. Keep on writing.”

So I did, but I didn’t tell anyone, least of all my classmates. I began journaling instead, inspired by Anne Frank. I even mimicked her at times. It was almost like fanfic, or, as they call it in the Writer’s Studio, apprenticeship. I still journal almost every day, forty years later.

Through high school and college, I developed as a writer of essays, but I didn’t do things like join the school newspaper because that would mean risking rejection all over again. I didn’t dare attempt fiction writing. My stories were stupid. I ended up majoring in Philosophy, instead of Creative Writing. The art of fiction seemed beyond my grasp.

From Philosophy, I went to religion, which is a story in itself. It’ll probably be the main story of this Substack, but I’ll get to it. Right now, I’ll just say that I dropped out of college and turned my whole life around. Though raised in a secular, unaffiliated Jewish family that barely attended synagogue, I gradually adopted Orthodox practices like Sabbath observance and modest dress. I ended up marrying an admittedly off-beat Hasidic Jew from the sect called Karlin-Stolin.

My husband was a writer, too. It was one of the things that drew us together. In 1998, nearly three years into our marriage, we started a website called “Being Jewish.” The bulk of the articles were his, but my section of it was called “Kressel’s Korner.” I remember hatching ideas for my first article while nursing my second son in the privacy of my neighbor’s backyard.

The trouble was, writing and kids didn’t mix well. Whenever I got into “the zone,” I’d completely lose track of the time, and it came at the expense of the kids. I felt terribly guilty. Well, big surprise. I’m Jewish.

And there on the other side of the Atlantic was another poor, writing Mom. She wrote in cafes while her daughter napped in her carriage. She wrote on park benches while her daughter played on the jungle gym. She believed in her own talent. And she ended up producing a classic that will be read and loved through the centuries. If she could become successful beyond her wildest dreams, couldn’t I have some small measure of writing success, too?

The books themselves were a master class in writing craft. My first lesson came from The Chamber of Secrets. Perhaps because I was a perennial journal-keeper myself, I noticed the detail of Ginny making her father go back for her diary even though the family was en route to the Hogwarts Express. In the scene, it seemed to function like any other descriptive detail. It added to the sense of pressure and delay. What family hasn’t been there? But that seemingly throw-away sentence contained the device that the whole plot hinged on. It was written memorably enough to recall later, but subtly enough to pass over on first glance. It was brilliant!

“Ohhh,” I thought. “So that’s how it’s done.”

And that is how I finally took the plunge into fiction writing. And though I have plenty more to say about that subject also, this post is long enough for now. So I’ll end with this. As Megan closed her interviews, which included interviews with trans people, she asked, “What would you say to J.K. Rowling?”

Some said something approximating, “F*** you.” Some asked, “Why?” Some said, “I just want you to understand me.” And some said, “Thank you.” If you listen to the podcast, you’ll be surprised about who said what.

As for me, I’m in the “thank you” camp. So thank you, J.K. Rowling. And thank you, Megan Phelps. And thanks to all of you for reading.