Judy Blume’s "grown-up" novels
Judy Blume wrote my adolescence. Everything I knew about menstruation, masturbation, and dealing with your parents’ divorce, I learned from her. It was her fictional scenarios that persuaded me from ever stuffing my bra, despite a lot of provocation. As a young adult writer, she was an icon in my era. She wrote some great younger books too, full of humor and a similar understanding of how hard it can be to be young (Blubber, for instance).
Her grown-up books aren’t as good. They don’t resonate. Of course, I read them much too young. I couldn’t be expected to relate to women contemplating divorces or second marriages when I was a teen. I still can’t contemplate either a divorce or a second marriage, having never found the resolve to contemplate even a first marraige. And yet, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t speak to me no matter how targeted my demographic. I got more out of that book with the teenage boy protagonist than I did on a recent re-reading of Wifey and Smart Women.
I don’t know what Blume is up to these days, but I hope she’s writing back down to her level.