I remember at around the age of 8 or 9, I fell in love with the hard-bound books of The Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and The Hardy Boys. I’d walk into the elementary school library --- which the school called the “Learning Resource Center” --- and checked out at least 2 of each kind. I thought Laura Lee Hope, Carolyn Keene, and Franklin W. Dixon were amazing authors and detectives themselves. I wanted to be Nan Bobbsey, but adored Freddie and Floss. I also wanted to be Nancy Drew and marry Joe Hardy. (Who cared about Ned Nickerson and Iola Morton?) Nancy and Joe were my fictional Ken and Barbie.
I went around with a checklist of book titles for each series and every time I borrowed from the library, I’d tick them off my list. If I went into a bookstore, I’d ask to be left there while the rest of the family went shopping. Knowing that I won’t be wandering around the mall or anywhere else, I’d be left in peace to prowl the aisles and search out my friends Bert, Nan, Freddie, and Floss; Nancy, Bess, and George; Frank, Joe, Chet, Phil, Biff, Jerry, and Tony.
I’d devour 6 to 10 books a week, replace my borrower’s card twice or thrice a year, and cajole or beg or bribe my parents for a new book every weekend. Such was my devotion to these fictional characters.
They opened the doorway to other writers of mystery and suspense, like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Baroness Orczy, Lemony Snicket, and a whole bunch of others.
Every time I cracked open a new mystery novel, whether it was a Bobbsey Twins or Nancey Drew or Hardy Boys adventure, I always mentally girded myself for the challenge of figuring out the perpetrator of the crime before the end of story. Many times I’d get it right, but on those occasions when I didn’t, I’d go back and look for what I missed. And then I’d contemplate a bit more on how cool these authors are to come up with these plots and weave them into a compelling tale that the clues are scattered within so subtly and seamlessly.
“I want to be able to do that,” I used to say to myself every time I finished a book.
So as I stared at these incomplete sets of hard-bound books from the first few volumes of each series, I asked myself, “How come I didn’t get to write those mystery books I told myself years ago?” I realized that I didn’t want to write the stories. I wanted to unravel the mysteries.
My musings stayed with me until I got to work where I quickly pulled up the ever-reliable know-it-all, Google, and keyed in the titles of each series.
Lo and behold! They were created, produced, and written by Edward Stratemeyer, founder of Stratemeyer Syndicate. (Well, he and a bunch of other ghostwriters wrote all the series.) I wanted to be upset, seeing as how my childhood heroes were actually a great many people. Definitely more than 3 authors. But then, I realize I’ve got only one real hero. His name is Edward Stratemeyer. The brains behind all the series --- and apparently the entire book packaging firm. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)
So, thank you, Edward Stratemeyer, for coming up with such wonderful characters I could admire and grow up with. They taught me a whole lot.
