![]() I didn't know much about Rennison before I started writing this in fact, before I don't know if I could have given you her name if you'd asked, at least not off the top of my head. It was more of a moment for looking back in complicated nostalgia at one of the few good things about my pre-teen years, by which I mean: those books. Besides, I grew out of the Confessions of Georgia Nicolson books fast enough that I didn't read the last few of the ten-novel series, as I would imagine is true for many fans of my generation: The first one, Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, was published in 1999, and the last, Are These the Basoomas I See Before Me?, was ten years later (ignoring the three-book spinoff series about Georgia's cousin, comprised entirely of titles with puns on the word "tights"). It wasn't sad, exactly as I have silently pointed out to many people online, I didn't even know her. I have rolled my eyes at many other Twitter users who have expressed as much upon learning their own formative cultural figures had died, so I didn't tweet about it, but I did have an experience. Aw, I thought, The author of my favorite books from childhood is dead! ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Yesterday morning I woke up to two surprises: 1) The author of my favorite books from childhood, Louise Rennison, had died at the age of 63, and 2) I actually felt some emotion about this. ![]()
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