Many women can tell you when and where they first read a Judy Blume book, but I’m pretty sure that a lot of them can’t remember how exactly they got their hands on it. That’s because, like a beloved pet or a well-worn pair of sneakers, Judy Blume’s books were always just sort of there, part of the architecture and set dressing of many a young girl’s life. Devoured during recess or pored over under the glow of a mini-flashlight after parents said their goodnights, Blume’s books were dog-eared talismans that, for a significant segment of the American female population, marked the passage from childhood to adolescence.
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