WCW: Mirta Ines Trupp

Welcome back to another Writer's Corner Wednesday. This also happens to be my 50th blog post, which feels like a fun milestone to note!

This week, I am talking to author Mirta Ines Trupp, whose latest novel, Kindle the Light of Liberty, was released on July 4th: a fitting publication day for a book that takes readers deep into the American Revolution and its aftermath. Read on for our conversation about the novel, writing Jewish characters in historical fiction, the hierarchy of candles (a real thing!), and -- as always -- writing advice.

Q. Kindle the Light of Liberty tells the story of Rose Wachsman, a young working-class Jewish woman in colonial Philadelphia. What inspired this plot? Are Rose and her father based on any historical figures? 

A. Before we get started—and I begin kvelling about Rose and her father—allow me to extend my thanks, Leah, for inviting me to your blog. It is a genuine honor to be interviewed by a scholar whose work explores women's voices in literature. As a fellow “Jewish Janeite,” I think we share an appreciation for stories that reclaim overlooked lives and remind us that history is always richer than the versions we first learn. Those ideas are very much at the heart of Kindle the Light of Liberty, and I'm delighted to have the opportunity to discuss them with you.

Your first question touches on something I suspect will resonate with your work and aligns beautifully with my motivations for the novel.

When we study the American Revolution, we naturally focus on the people whose names appear in history books. But I've always been drawn to the women who stand just beyond the edge of the frame. They remind me of the matriarchs in our own families—the mothers who passed down traditions, the grandmothers who quietly held families together through uncertain times. Their names may not appear in textbooks, but their influence echoes through generations. I wanted to imagine one of those women standing at the dawn of the American experiment. Rose was born from that desire—to create the kind of woman history rarely records but every family ought to remember.

Rose Wachsman isn’t based on one historical woman. Rather, she’s a composite of the countless Jewish daughters whose names appear only briefly in synagogue records, wills, marriage contracts, and family correspondence. Albeit in small numbers, we know Jewish women were there—right in the middle of everything! They worried about marriage, argued with their parents, mourned losses, celebrated holidays, and undoubtedly formed opinions about the Revolution. History, however, didn’t think it necessary to preserve their voices.

Her father, Benjamin, is much the same. I wanted him to represent the skilled Jewish artisans who rarely become the subjects of biographies but whose labor literally helped illuminate colonial America. I found something wonderfully symbolic about making him a chandler. Candles provide light, but they also represent knowledge, memory, faith, and hope. It seemed the perfect trade for a family trying to find its place in a nation struggling toward its own ideals.

Historical fiction, I think, gives us permission—not to invent history or rewrite it—but to restore humanity to those who were in the thick of things and yet left behind only the faintest traces of themselves. If Kindle the Light of Liberty succeeds in shining even a small light on those forgotten lives, then Rose and Benjamin will have fulfilled the purpose for which they were created.

Q. The novel does a fantastic job of transporting readers back in time. There are a lot of

minute sensory details that bring the setting to life—the weather, the smells of the Wachsman’s candle shop, etc. What was your research process like? What was the most surprising thing you learned?

Research is one of my greatest joys, but it can also feel like wandering through a complicated maze—every corner leading to another intriguing discovery. It is exhilarating and maddening in equal measure, but the thrill of uncovering something new always makes the chase worthwhile. I wasn't collecting facts simply to fill pages with historical details. I wanted readers to inhabit Rose's world.

One of my favorite discoveries was that there was an entire hierarchy of candles. Most people relied on smoky, rather pungent tallow candles, while wealthier households could afford clean-burning beeswax or the luxurious spermaceti candles—made from the sperm whale and prized for their brilliant light. Then I discovered bayberry candles—a uniquely American specialty. Made from the wax of native bayberries, they burned with a wonderfully balsamic fragrance and a soft olive-green hue. Because it took thousands of berries to produce even a small amount of wax, they were often reserved for holidays and special occasions, becoming symbols of prosperity and fresh beginnings. As I dug deeper, I discovered that candles and illumination revealed far more about colonial life than I had initially imagined. The surviving vestry minutes of Christ Church, one of the city's oldest congregations, describe a committee formed in 1744 to review a “beautiful chandelier of 24 branches” brought from London by Captain John Searle. Records like these reminded me that illumination was not simply practical—it was also a statement of wealth, refinement, and connection to the wider world. The Pennsylvania Gazette carried advertisements from Philadelphia merchants offering candle and oil chandeliers, brass sconces, and looking glasses, revealing how much attention colonists paid to creating beautiful, light-filled spaces. Even the rooms where history was made depended on this technology; records from Independence Hall document the glass chandeliers used to illuminate the Pennsylvania State House. It quickly became obvious that the humble chandlery played a part in this revolutionary era! Tallow wasn't used solely for candles; it was also needed to grease military equipment and waterproof supplies. Chandlers found themselves competing with the Continental Army for raw materials, while many farmers hesitated to bring tallow and beeswax into Philadelphia for fear that their wagons or horses would be commandeered by either army. Suddenly, the Wachsman's shop became more than a backdrop—it became another way to experience the Revolution through the lives of ordinary people. It reminded me that history does not happen only in council chambers or battlefields; it happens in workshops, kitchens, marketplaces, and homes.

Perhaps the most surprising revelation, however, was the remarkable diversity of colonial Jewish life. I discovered physicians, artisans, shopkeepers, and courageous men and women whose daily lives were deeply woven into the fabric of Revolutionary Philadelphia. That realization confirmed the kind of story I wanted to tell—not simply the history of famous people, but the lives of ordinary Jewish families whose contributions have too often remained in the background. For me, that's the magic of research. A single historical detail—a candle's fragrance, a shortage of tallow, a chandelier illuminating a colonial gathering place, or a name tucked into an old synagogue record—can open a window into an entire world. Once I understand that world, I hope my readers feel as though they've stepped into it alongside Rose.

Q. Can you say a little bit about why bringing the “hidden history” of Revolutionary Jews to light was important to you?

A. I sometimes think we’ve become so accustomed to telling Jewish history through suffering that we forget how much of it is also about flourishing. The phrase “bloom where you’re planted” has always resonated with me, and the Revolutionary generation fascinated me because it represented an extraordinary moment of possibility.

For centuries, Jews in Europe had learned to live with limitations—restrictions on where they could live, what professions they could enter, whether they could own land or hold office. Then suddenly, a new republic was speaking a revolutionary language: liberty, equality, and religious freedom. Those ideals were imperfectly realized, of course. But imagine hearing those words for the first time if your family had spent generations as tolerated outsiders. That emotional possibility became the heart of my novel.

I didn’t want to “correct” American history so much as expand the lens through which we view it. Jewish patriots were never separate from the American story; they were part of it from the very beginning. And perhaps it is important to acknowledge that fact—to underscore it and to make sure future generations understand it! We so often encounter Jewish history through moments of catastrophe. We know about expulsions, the Inquisition, pogroms, and the Holocaust—and those stories must be told. But they are not the entirety of Jewish history. We have also lived ordinary, productive, joyful lives. We have built communities, fallen in love, argued over family dinners, raised children, and helped build the societies in which we lived.

As Jewish writers, I think we carry a quiet but profound responsibility. We preserve memory. Sometimes that means remembering tragedy. Sometimes it means remembering joy, resilience, and contribution. I wanted readers to meet Jewish characters who weren’t defined by persecution but by courage, humor, love, faith, and an earnest desire to help build a country worthy of its ideals. Rose’s story grew out of that belief: that Jewish women were not simply witnesses to history, but participants in it. To me, that’s a profoundly hopeful Jewish story. As a novelist, discovering that fuller picture felt like uncovering buried treasure.

Q. What were some unexpected challenges or roadblocks you encountered as you were writing and preparing for publication? How did you move past these?

A. Oddly enough, my greatest challenge wasn’t the research—it was restraint. I uncovered so many remarkable stories that I wanted to include all of them. Time and again, I discovered another Jewish patriot, another extraordinary woman, another forgotten family whose experiences deserved a novel of their own. Eventually, I realized that history and fiction ask different things of a writer. History seeks comprehensiveness. Fiction seeks emotional truth.

Rose couldn’t carry every fascinating discovery I’d made. She had to remain a believable young woman rather than a walking encyclopedia of Revolutionary America. Once I accepted that, the novel became stronger—at least, I hope so! The research moved beneath the surface, supporting the story rather than competing with it.

Publication brought its own lessons. Writing is wonderfully solitary. Publishing is anything but! There is a need for marketing, seeking promotional opportunities, updating and posting on social media, finding new and creative ways to condense months of research into a few thoughtful paragraphs—and competing in an increasingly crowded marketplace for a reader’s attention. Talk about obstacles! It’s enough to make anyone want to throw in the towel. But then, every time a reader tells me they had no idea Jews were part of Revolutionary America, I remember exactly why I wrote this book.

Q. What is the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

A. The best advice I ever received wasn’t about writing at all. It was about paying attention.

Writers are observers. We notice the hesitation before someone answers a difficult question, the way a room changes when one particular person enters, the small rituals families repeat without thinking. History lives in those details just as much as it lives in treaties and battles.

Jane Austen understood that better than almost anyone. She rarely placed dramatic historical events at the center of her novels, yet we learn everything about her world because she paid such careful attention to human behavior.

I’ve tried to carry that lesson into my own work. Whether I’m writing about colonial Philadelphia or researching Jewish genealogy, I’m always asking the same question: Who has been ignored? Whose voices haven’t we heard? For me, that’s where historical fiction begins. It isn’t simply recreating the past. It’s listening for voices that have been there all along.