Kidnapping, murder, tense moments, cliff hangers – it’s kind of second nature to me. I grew up with kid-size thrillers.

I feasted on The Hardy Boys.

The Hidden Harbor Mystery, While the Clock Ticked, A Figure in Hiding – the list was staggering. Franklin W. Dixon was a machine at cranking out mysteries.

I was Frank and Joe Hardy’s biggest fan. They could do anything, solve any crime, defeat even the most badass villain without getting their hair ruffled. Tie them up – they scoffed at sailor’s knots. Hang them upside down and lower them into water – escape was child’s play. I loved those guys and I was willing to do unthinkable things to get my hands on the latest release.

Here’s how it worked. I had two for-sure occasions when I got a new book – my birthday and Christmas. That didn’t cut it, I needed more mysteries than a paltry two a year. So I had to play the sick card.

This wasn’t a walk in the park. I had to miss school, which I didn’t mind all that much, and suffer the indignities of being my mother’s patient, which was entirely awful. She made my sick days a living hell. I had to stay in bed, and for an energetic eight year old that was like dragging fingernails down a chalk board. Excruciatingly painful. The only time I could safely duck out of bed was when she was vacuuming. I could tell where she was in the house from the sound of the vacuum and I used those time-nuggets to the max. Sadly, we lived in an average size house and cleaning it was a part time gig. The moment the vacuum went silent I would push my Lego under the bed, hop under the covers and roll my eyes back in their sockets.

I was a master at the game. Once, I even held my breath so long I turned bright red and got really hot. Mom thought I had a fever and I got a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.

After an eternity trapped in my room, the door would open and footsteps would echo off the hardwood. Dad was home from work. He always headed straight in to see me, sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through my hair. Dad couldn’t tell whether I was sick or faking it, and I don’t think he cared. We’d talk for a bit, enough so he knew I wasn’t going to die, and then he’d pull out the prize.

A new Hardy Boys tome. Could it be a murder mystery? Maybe a kidnapping.

I can’t imagine how big and bright my eyes got when I saw it. The Holy Grail of writing had just walked into my bedroom. I’d look surprised, then happy, then surprised again just for good measure. He’d leave to see what meat Mom had overcooked for dinner and I’d dig in.

Oh, heaven.

I couldn’t see them at the time, but the Hardy Boys series has a few questionable flaws. Like their dad, Fenton Hardy. He’s never around. The guy is the worst parent ever. He’s always out of town on business or camping. Total absentee father, and I don’t think their mother was ever introduced.

Chet Morton is their best friend and he’s a chunky, jolly-looking boy according to Franklin in While the Clock Ticked. That’s actually a flattering description. I think overweight and fat actually made it into print in a few of the books. Poor Chet.

Frank is a manic of a driver – he’s always chasing after bad guys and he treats the speed limit more like a suggestion than a rule.

If Frank and Joe need to find out if the bad guys are hiding something in their house they break in. Last time I checked, breaking and entering is a pretty serious crime.

But here’s the thing – I think that’s why they were my heroes. They got stuff done. Damn the torpedoes, to hell with the rules, there’s a bad guy out there who needs catchin’.

It all gets me thinking – maybe, just maybe, someone out there will get this excited when my latest release hits the market. That would really make my day.