By: Vikki VanSickle
When I started to work on my first mystery novel, The Mystic and the Missing Girl, I found myself thinking about Nancy Drew—the sleuth who made me fall in love with the genre. As a kid, I collected the distinctive yellow hardbacks from flea markets and garage sales, keeping track of them in a spiral-bound notebook. By the time I was devouring them, in the nineties, the Nancy Drew books were not the only option for a mystery-loving kid, nor was Nancy the most contemporary sleuth. Nancy herself had been given multiple makeovers—aged up for the more romance-heavy Nancy Drew Files and aged down for budding readers in The Nancy Drew Notebooks. But nothing captured my heart like the original series. What was the secret sauce, akin to the rich gravies and drizzles cooked up by the Drew’s beloved housekeeper Hannah Gruen, that kept me coming back for more? And could I recreate it to season my own novel?
First and foremost is Nancy herself. She is never daunted, nor does she consider whether or not something is ‘appropriate’ for a young woman to do. The issue of gender never comes up—somewhat remarkable given the time period in which the books were written. Her father, a successful criminal lawyer, enlists her help in his cases! The police take her lead! When her cases require her to go undercover in a particular occupation or perform a specific skill, she excels at it. There is literally nothing she can’t do or learn over the course of a single book. Ride horses! Tap dance! Fly a plane! Play bagpipes! Scuba dive! Understand morse code! Looking back with writerly eyes, this is an extremely convenient plot device. But to a young reader, it registered as intelligence and was inspirational. Nancy could do anything, therefore so could I.
Yet despite Nancy’s intelligence and preternatural ability to master anything, she is not a one-woman show. She understands the value of teamwork and is quick to enlist help, particularly from her friends. Bess and George (and sometimes Helen) are not sidekicks; they are team players. Solving mysteries is satisfying but solving them with your friends is fun. Discussing suspects while cruising through the countryside in your sky-blue roadster; Dressing up in white robes in order to infiltrate a cult; Posing as an invalid and a nurse to catch a crook; Poking through a dusty attic for clues; All tasks made infinitely better with friends. The witty, stylish, and indefatigable trio of Nancy, Bess and George walked so Charlie’s Angels could run.
With the focus firmly on friendship, romance is minimal. Ned Nickerson doesn’t enter the picture until book seven and he only becomes a love interest once Nancy is satisfied that he isn’t a suspect in her case (the old ‘suspect to lovers’ trope). Once they start dating, Ned’s role tends to fall under the categories of Handsome Date or Handsome Chauffeur. Bess and George are never supplanted. Ned’s opinions are considered but never deferred to. And nothing, no dinner party or college football game, is more important than solving a mystery. The message is clear. Nancy doesn’t need Ned. Her life is already full. This approach to romance—that it is a ‘nice to have’ not a ‘need to have’ is as appealing to me now as it was then, and something that is lacking in fiction across many genres.
But as much as I love a smart heroine and a ‘sisters before misters’ outlook on life, what I was yearning for the most was a world in which mysteries reveal themselves through physical objects—a jewel box, a secret diary, an old clock. A world where notes are hidden in the crevices of crumbling walls and hollow oaks. Instead of digital trails, there are footprints in mud. Distinctive cursive handwriting is as a good as a fingerprint. The supernatural— in the form of whispering statues, haunted bridges, or mysteriously tolling bells—while always explained, hovers in the background. I allowed the supernatural to rise to the surface in my novel, but it is tied to tangible objects. Reluctant psychic turned amateur sleuth Drew (yes, that name is a reference) gets visions by holding objects—a weathered keychain, a ring, an evening bag. In a reality that is online, data-driven, and intangible, people are yearning for physical objects—see the resurgence of music on vinyl and ‘analog bags’ packed with of knitting supplies, Rubik’s cubes, and yes, books. Cell phone data and DNA testing are accurate, but they lack the romance of objects. Forget a stoic but handsome D.I., I want to swoon over a slightly tarnished locket.
In The Mystic and the Missing Girl, I wanted to conjure a feeling, recreate a vibe— bottle the nostalgia and dab it on the reader’s pulse points, so they get a pleasant whiff from time to time. It is an homage to a bygone era of mystery without the blinders of the time. Issues of class, race, and gender are neither demonized nor ignored, something the Nancy Drew mysteries have been rightly criticized for. In honour of my childhood hero, I have lovingly tucked references into my novel. Some are more obvious than others—Gruen’s is the name of a beloved diner that serves the kind of hearty dinners Hannah prepares; There is no Ned Nickerson but there is a very useful Nick; There is quite literally a clue in a diary. It isn’t necessary to clock these references to enjoy the story, but for those who also grew up with Nancy, I hope it makes you smile.
If you enjoyed this article, consider subscribing to The Strand Magazine.
We publish newly discovered stories, original fiction, and interviews with major writers.
Be the first to comment