This might have been due to parental fielding, or it might have been due to marketing. Though I read Judy’s books out of order, I somehow knew Forever should be saved for last. Since being eleven was much like being in limbo, it was nice to have some company, even if it was only on the page. Karen from It’s Not the End of the World had a rug shaped like a foot Margaret, from Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, coveted sanitary pads that had actual belts – and so, for a time, did I. I remember them by subject (Judaism, scoliosis, wet dreams) and by small, evocative details: grape jelly, apartments with cheerful doormen, the New York Times, Esther Williams. If I was ever going to learn how to grow up, it would be through books, and Judy’s were both a comfort and portent for things to come.įrom 1970 to 1980, Judy Blume wrote fourteen books for young people of these, I have read twelve. My older sisters had become silent and secretive once puberty hit. At a time when most of the adult voices around me seemed consistently inconsistent, Judy’s – and that was how I thought of her, first-name basis – felt trustworthy. I devoured Sweet Dreams and Sweet Valley High books, but Judy Blume was the first author I felt like I knew. When I was eleven, my favourite things included Bonne Bell lip gloss, Ice Magic, 1982 In the Sun and reading.
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