Bloganuary: What was your dream job as a child?
It was my heart’s desire to be a girl detective.
When I wasn’t reading the Betsy-Tacy books, I was probably reading a mystery. I even wandered into the adult stacks at the library and pulled Agatha Christies off the shelf when I was still fairly young.
But the mysteries I loved most were the Trixie Belden ones.
Yes, I read Nancy Drew. But Nancy was so … so … perfect. Trixie? Not so much. Trixie got into trouble, sometimes said the wrong things. To my young mind, the mysteries felt like they really could happen, and Trixie (and her club) really could solve them.
Which meant that maybe there were mysteries out there for me to solve.
I was certain there had to be. For instance, at least one mystery must have been going on in the dilapidated old workshop at the end of a dirt road not far from my house. It stood next to a copse of manicured pines—a strange sight for this part of our town. We had the slough and hills of deciduous trees, but these pines were clearly cultivated, but for what purpose wasn’t clear.
Truly a mystery. And they made excellent cover for spying on the neighborhood, particularly that old workshop. I only gathered the courage to approach the main door once. Then I thought I saw a face in the second-floor window (probably the old man who worked there and whom I was no doubt annoying). I’m not proud to say it. But.
I ran.
So much for my career as a girl detective.
On a positive note, I did not get into trouble for trying to solve mysteries that didn’t exist.
Sometime later, I realized that you could experience mysteries and adventures by not only daydreaming them but writing them down.
What a revelation!
I’m not sure where this early love of mysteries came from. Even now, I love reading (or writing) stories with secrets and mysteries. And I think I may need to go find one. The temperature is below zero, with no signs of warming up, and I could use a good mystery or secret to help me brave the day.
Writing Wrongs 