Hi internets and fans of the lovely Princess. This is another Princess, Princess Pointful to be exact, visiting from my normal habitat of ...and hijinks ensued.
The career goals of most children tend to be a little, well, idealistic. I generally tended towards the artistic, aspiring to be a writer, "drawer" (very specialized form of artist, you know), movie star, etc. For some reason, clown briefly entered the picture.
I also ignored my terminal lack of balance and inability to skate in my dreams of being the first female hockey player in the NHL (I gave up my goal after Manon Rheaume beat me to the punch, although I didn't give up on my dreams of marrying Pavel Bure quite so easily).
However, by far my coolest aspiration was to be girl detective extraordinaire.
Like most girls my age, I devoured Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew novels.
I took my fandom a little further than most, however.
For one, I developed a raging crush on Joe Hardy.
Fictionality couldn't stop my love.
I frantically flipped through each new tome I checked out of the library, scouring for the one illustration every forty pages, and hoping it would be a sketch of Joe doing something courageous, and therefore dreamy, such as spelunking for a lost key or deciphering a pirate's map.
I also delved into the unfortunate realm of fan fiction, writing tales in which the boys discovered a secret passageway between Frank's girlfriend's shady uncle's house and the bank. These tales usually contained a new feisty brunette character, who was always a thinly veiled version of myself.
As I got further sucked into the subculture of amateur sleuthing, the tales began to vary. Instead of writing about the aforementioned characters, a new series was developed: The Dudette Detectives. The DD were myself and a close friend, who, in these tales, always somehow ended up in the middle of the mystery action, and surprised all those know-it-all adults with our profound powers of deduction.
Then, much to our excitement, the Dudette Detective had their first real life case. Sure, the mayor didn't come directly asking for our help, but our sleuthing skills were clearly needed. An unknown culprit had smashed my partner's science fair project. As such, we gathered together our special detective kits (baby powder and scotch tape for taking fingerprints, a paperclip for picking locks, and, of course, a note pad for writing down leads). We created a case profile, with the primary suspects and possible motives.
The odd thing is that I remember the preparation more than the actual detective work. I'm not even sure how the case actually resolved itself. Perhaps, just as my stories often commenced with greatly details beginnings, and tapered off into oblivion somewhere around Chapter 3, the actual intricacies of "real life" detective work were nowhere near the Nancy Drew level of glamour I was expected. With no rocks with threats attached being thrown into my bedroom window and no signs of an international conspiracy, the regular 10-year old level of ADHD returned, and I likely moved on to the next obsession-du-jour.
Still, something does remain appealing about searching abandoned houses...
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