Are You There God? It’s Me, Shannon – And I Just Met Judy Blume!

But I could not move. I could only inch, probably looking like a flattened cartoon as I slowly side-stepped towards her. What was wrong with me? I’d been to author events before, managed to tell James Franco I admired his work at a signing in Santa Monica, managed to ask Salman Rushdie a question about his research habits at the Music Hall last fall, but around Judy Blume I could not move. Could not speak.

What was happening?

It was like my body had reverted back to its middle-school awkwardness, when kids would ask me, “Do you ever talk? Why are you so quiet?” So I did what I could manage: smile, nod, and try not to look like a short-circuiting fangirl.

It was hard to ignore her legacy, even as she softly laughed that notion away whenever it was brought up. This was the woman who was willing to spill the dirty details about puberty, relationships, and anxieties, becoming the person to refer to if you were too nervous to ask anyone. I read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret in the ‘90s when I was in elementary school, and I remember being confused by the publication date: 1970.

How was that possible? How did she know what I was thinking, know what I was worrying about (i.e. boys, boobs, bulbous period pads)? I now know it was possible because the topics Blume picks are timeless, just as she is. Yet there she was, her smile shining as bright as her bracelets as she was interviewed, asked to pose for pictures, and told again and again by fervent fans that she had changed their life. Interestingly enough, Blume asserted during her conversation with Virginia Prescott that “They have given me every bit as much as they think I have given them. Writing has saved my life.”

If I could go back to when she first walked backstage, I would have over and told her that she taught me it’s okay to open up, it’s okay to write it down, and it’s okay to want an increased bust.
Maybe a little more eloquently, but it was JUDY BLUUUME.