Having grown up on the Jersey Shore, I know all about summer. Gathering up a car full of kids, sunscreen and towels. Lying on a beach, a refreshing ice-cold lemonade in hand, seagulls squawking overhead. And as every aficionado of summer knows, no trip to the coast would be complete without the perfect beach read.

What I never would have imagined as a teenager, however, are the cover images of new novels spread along beach towels on the shore this summer. A man in a black kippah caressing a lover, as seen on Felicia Grossman’s latest fairy tale-inspired novel, Wake Me Most Wickedly. A hot sofer, or scribe, standing against the backdrop of a ketubah, as showcased on Stacey Agdern’s recent The Dating Contract, which features a plot where the couple initially only pretends to date.

Or, in the case of my fourth novel, Magical Meet Cute, out in August, two red-headed lovers about to kiss. One is a proud Jewish woman, the other a potential golem she may have accidentally summoned. A tallit is wrapped lovingly around them, a perfectly rendered tzitzit trailing down an extremely fit arm.

Fun, love and the promise of a happy ending. This is the world of Jewish romance. Or, more specifically, contemporary novels and authors that focus on Jewish joy. These books have become part of a movement that I am deeply and passionately invested in.

Joy is not a word often associated with Jewish writing. Indeed, growing up near Atlantic City in the 1990s, I largely had access to one type of Jewish story—Holocaust fiction. Of course, there were others, novels such as Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth or kid’s fare like All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor.

But the narratives I was handed, the stories I was told about my Jewish experience, were that I was either a victim needing to be saved or a side character. The girl with frizzy hair and oversized glasses—or, in Roth’s case, an overbearing Jewish mother—but never a person deserving of a happily ever after.

There is power in seeing yourself as the hero in your own story. I discovered that power in my 30s, when the chronic illness I had lived with for most of my life, myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), worsened. Too disabled to leave the house, I spent two years relegated to four square walls of a two-bedroom apartment in Northern Virginia, where I was living with my husband.

I had to leave rabbinical school, losing the vocation I so desperately wanted. I gave up dreams of having children, acknowledging with my husband that I was often too sick to raise them. It was in this dark place that I realized I had a choice between giving up or surviving—and thriving.

I made an important decision. One that would change the entire trajectory of my life: I was going to hold onto joy.

I started small, turning off the news and cutting out social media. I bought a plant and began meditating. Then, I joined ME Action, writing letters to members of Congress to advocate for those with my illness. I also helped sponsor the creation of a siddur for PunkTorah’s online synagogue and community, realizing the need for online access points for Jews long before the Covid pandemic. It was during this joy hoarding that I began to read romances.

I found comfort in these stories, with their zany antics and their promise of a happily ever after. I adored the fantasy aspect of romance—a billionaire who does laundry, a rock star falling for the ordinary girl. Yet despite their formulaic construction, it would be a misnomer to call romance novels “fluff.” Rather, like Hasidic parables of yore, romance novels tackle difficult contemporary issues through the lens of an entertaining story.

It’s a model that works. Today, romance is the highest-earning genre in fiction, with approximately 39 million romance novels sold each year. It’s an impressive number, and it speaks to the voracious appetite of romance readers.

However, I did not think to write my own romance novel, one that would reflect my reality, until an experience several years ago with my then 7-year-old niece. As she was sitting on my lap while we were watching a movie, she looked up at me with innocent eyes and said, “Aunt Jeanie. You have a big nose. And big noses are ugly.”

My heart broke.

I love my nose. It’s part of my history as an Ashkenazi Jewish woman, and when I look in the mirror, I see 6,000 years of that history staring back at me. I couldn’t understand how my little niece—a girl raised by strong Jewish women, who attended Jewish day school—had internalized this message that there was something wrong with my Jewish look.

I realized she would grow up with the same stories I had read, about Jewish women as victims, side characters or overbearing mothers.

So, I decided to write a book for when she grows up, in the genre that I loved, but this time it would be a Jewish romance with unapologetically and joyously Jewish characters. A story where the best of our community was profiled, where Jewish women never bemoaned the size of their noses and Jewish men were sexy. And, no longer ashamed of my diagnosis, I gave my heroine my disease. I allowed this broken and disabled Jewish woman to be loved, valued and adored.

That book, The Matzah Ball, was published in 2021 and became an international best seller and was optioned for film. Its success has led me to write more unapologetically Jewish romances, including Mr. Perfect on Paper and Kissing Kosher.

After my experience writing The Matzah Ball, I learned something important. While I had written the book primarily for myself and my niece, countless others needed these types of books, too.

Today, the need for Jewish joy has never been more apparent. In the wake of October 7, antisemitic incidents have increased significantly worldwide. We have all been horrified about what we have seen on college campuses and online. But while my own ability to combat hateful people and rhetoric is limited, I can model Jewish pride.

So, what does Jewish romance offer today’s Jewish reader?

It offers narratives that celebrate Jewish life. It creates access points. In some of the most recent Jewish romances, a reader can celebrate Hanukkah alongside a Reform Manhattanite Jew, as in Meredith Schorr’s novel Someone Just Like You. Or undergo the stressful but oftentimes hilarious struggles of the Orthodox shidduch process, as in Heidi Shertok’s Unorthodox Love. It showcases strong Jewish women with diverse lives and unfiltered opinions, such as in Sara Goodman Confino’s Behind Every Good Man, set during a 1960s election campaign.

Beyond all these things, Jewish romance allows Jewish readers to envision themselves as the heroes. And to connect with Jewish pride and Jewish joy—all while lounging at the beach.

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Jean Meltzer is the internationally best-selling author of The Matzah Ball, Mr. Perfect on Paper, Kissing Kosher and the upcoming Magical Meet Cute.