Toward the end of every June, right around that time I would have been dismissed from school for the year, I reread Judy Blume’s ode to complicated girl friendships, Summer Sisters.

[Do you think of this book every time you hear "Dancing Queen"?]

The early summers in the book remind me always of the many summers I spent at our neighborhood pool (much in the style of every suburban kid movie ever).  Friendships changed during those summer months.  Girls I went to school with, but never hung out with from September through June, suddenly became the only people in my life for July and August.

Mostly because I’m still (forever?) in school, my life beats to the rhythm of the school year, and though my semester ended with the month of April, summer did not actually start until those thickening June days and reading Summer Sisters.

The inimitable Bob Gray writes in his recent Shelf Awareness column about favorite lawn chair books (for those of us who didn’t spend summers beachside) from readers’ formative years. In a similar vein, Andi Diehn writes about her evolution as a writer over at The Millions (shout out, Sweet Valley High!).  For me (okay, for like every female writer my age), Judy Blume reigns supreme for both of those categories.

I didn’t read Summer Sisters until sometime in late high school (maybe a year or two after it was published), but for many summers in elementary school, Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great provided the same literary switch of the seasons. Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Paula Danziger – they provided the sacred texts of childhood.  When I was about eight, I met Valerie Tripp, who wrote many of the American Girl books. But Valerie Tripp – because she was a name-inside-the-covers author – didn’t have the same celebrity aura as the likes of Blume and Cleary.

Which I suppose was practice for the world I live in now. A world immersed in books and writing and authors.  I’ve given many an established writer/editor rides to and from airports, fumbled through many of those awkward dinners where you’re reminded that most writers (including yourself) aren’t the most socially capable people on the planet, and sat through more readings than I know what to do with.  And it’s all – even the awkward moments – wonderful.

There are Big Name Writers out there, but most of the people in my world, no matter how much I adore and admire them, aren’t so Big. Professors and friends introduce me to their friends who also write, and we all become Facebook friends, even though I’ve never heard of them before or read their work or anything like that (and they accept even though I’m clearly nobody).

Because I’m usually introduced to these people as people, I’m always shaken by my lack of context when said people, say, write status updates and all of a sudden veritable cults of followers flock to impress.  And then I have to take a minute.  Am I supposed to know this person?  Is she famous?  There are too many writers to keep track of! Then I don’t want to comment on status updates because I’m not intending to be part of an accidental cult or I don’t feel worthy enough to participate if we’ve elevated the level of who’s participating.  It’s all very weird.  And all very no-one-who-isn’t-a-writer-could-possibly-give-a-shit.

This probably isn’t a common sentiment, but I enjoyed the hierarchy of high school.  I knew who belonged where and what to do in interactions with whom, etc.  Three popular girls shared the locker next to mine.  I knew I could talk to Hollis, acknowledge Emily, and just not even look in the direction of Farryl.  It was that easy.  But my world now, it’s just so confusing.  It’s like navigating every high school’s hierarchy all at once.  So many clumps of mid-level writers (as seen in all of the rebuttal lists for the “20 Under 40”).  Ten hundred million times more clumps of low-level writers and MFA students.  I loathe not knowing where I’m supposed to be or how to interact with whom I meet.  (Also, with the exception of Sal Pane, I’m wary of forging friendships or “friendships” entirely based on how well that person might serve me in my future. That feels very slimy.)

So, realistically, I know that writers I meet as writers – they’re people, too.  The aforementioned professor that I threatened to throw up on twice in one year is a writer I’ve admired since I was sixteen.  But the minute I met her, the writer I had been reading for nearly a decade splintered off of the person in front of me. (Not unlike my dealings with the folk music world. There are the singers on the stage and on the CDs and then the people they become when we split an ice cream sundae.)

But then along comes Judy Blume.  She has a blog.  It’s not updated very often, but I get a little giddy every time she posts something (and then proceed to re-declare how much I love Judy Blume).  And then she goes and gets a Twitter account, and it’s like she’s a real person, too.

[Pictured: Judy Effing Blume]

I just don’t know what to do with that.  Judy Blume isn’t a real person.  She’s Judy Effing Blume!  Yet, there she is, receiving Tweets from Susan Orlean (who may or may not be real either, so there’s that). (Also, it may or may not have been Susan Orlean.)  I could only be more surprised/thrilled if Joan Didion requested my friendship on Facebook or if Virginia Woolf rose from the dead to comment on my blog.  I mean, seriously.  This woman has been a part of my reading life since I learned to read.

But it makes me wonder what happens for little girls just now reading Judy Blume (or whomever – this can apply to big girls reading Susan Orlean as well).  What is it like to have vague access into the minds of your writer-heroes, always?  When you’ve never not known that?  Does that change how you read and love Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great?  Does your respect for a writer change when you can see how she interacts with the writing community in ways much larger than the acknowledgement section at the end of a book?