I had weird reading habits when I was a kid.

For one thing, no one ever told me that there were certain books that boys should read, and certain books that girls should read, and that there was a mechitza (a barrier in a traditional synagogue that separates the sexes) between the two of them.

What did I know? That was how I came to devour the entire Harriet the Spy series.

Because, well, I liked spies.

And then, there was Judy Blume, born Judith Sussman, in 1938.

Judy Blume is one of the most important Jewish writers of the twentieth century.

Judy Blume? The lady who wrote about training bras and embarrassing gym classes?

Yes, that Judy Blume. OK, she’s not Philip Roth or Saul Bellow, or Cynthia Ozick. And, yes, the "serious" literary establishment never really invited her into their club.

They might have been wrong.

Mark Oppenheimer has just published the definitive biography of Blume: Judy Blume: A Life. As I read the biography, and as I reflected on my podcast interview with Mark, I kept thinking: someone needs to make the Jewish case for Judy Blume.

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