Judy Blume’s visit to Hartford was a big deal– not for tourism or economic growth, or even as much for the Mark Twain House & Museum, for which this event was a fundraiser, as for each person who was impacted by the author’s writing.

Growing up in a time before checking email was the first act of the day after opening one’s eyes, information was neither a click of the mouse nor a tap of the finger away. At best, it was found after nervously and suspiciously roaming the shelves of the small town library where the search for knowledge coincided with finally being allowed to check out books, music, and videos from the adult section, a rite of passage on par with menarche. Most children’s books were uninteresting and brimming with clichés, but I was devoted to reading Beverly Cleary, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Judy Blume with as much enthusiasm as outdoor survival guides and Stephen King, the latter of which required a letter of parental permission to read in school.

Books being passed around from one kid to another is nowhere in the memory of this time. Our hobbies were supposed to be going to the mall, talking on the phone, taking dance lessons, or going to CCD, that mysterious thing that all my classmates seemed to do.

That was why Judy Blume mattered to me.

Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. was important for its discussion of budding breasts and the alien territory of menstruation, but for a girl raised with no religion, the book finally provided a protagonist with whom I could identify, at least to some degree. Margaret explains to classmates and relatives that she is “nothing,” something I had to do enough to know that such a statement provokes disbelief and awe far more than it should. My lack of baptism concerned and confounded some of my own peers. I never knew what the fuss was about and never knew what CCD was and why everyone seemed to get invited except me. Margaret, however, had a Jewish father and Christian mother, leading to different complications– the expectation from relatives that she would choose one or the other religion. She struggles with this religious identity and what God wants from her, all while obsessing over typical adolescent matters like crushes and friendship.

Because there were no teachers or classmates who I thought I could have those types of chats with at that time, Blume was lifted to mythical status for me. In a town where others’ identities seemed so absolute, her creation was exactly what was needed at that time.

In the weeks leading up to Blume’s appearance in Hartford I heard grumbling about the ticket price, including from some who have spent a lot more on tickets to events like the CT Forum, even when they are unfamiliar with all the speakers. As someone who rarely spends more than $5 on any event, grabbing up the $25 cheap seat option was not something I paused over. It was an opportunity to see Judy Blume in person, to see that this person — who impacted my thinking at such a crucial time — is real.

So, she is.

The best moments were when she spoke directly to young children, if only because of how amazing it must have been for them. The answers she gave to both adults and children were not groundbreaking, at least not for adults who identify as writers and have done their share of research: there is no such thing as writer’s block, just “on” days and “off” days; walking, biking, and throwing a ball are more effective ways to deal with feeling “off” than worrying about not writing; if you want to write, you need to read a lot; you can’t very well draft when you have a critic on one shoulder and a censor on the other.

How awesome it must have been for young, aspiring writers to get sound advice from an author they admire before they have developed habits and filled themselves with doubt.