I read all the Nancy Drew books I could get my hands on when I was a kid, even if only a “few” of them made it with me to adulthood:

Yes, I loved these books. I loved the comforting predictability of the background elements and the intrigue of the mysteries. I loved Nancy’s “sporty little roadster” and her chums mild Bess and tomboy George. I loved her motherly housekeeper Hannah and her lawyer dad who treats her with both love and respect. I loved the silhouette of Nancy with her magnifying glass on the older editions of the books. And I especially loved Nancy herself. She was clever and beautiful and brave, with a strong sense of right-and-wrong and a driving need to know the truth. I even loved her “flaws”: she could be reckless, and she could be proud — or perhaps that’s not the right word, but she seemed so confident, taking it for granted that people would do as she asked. And I loved that although she appreciates the attentions of college-boy Ned, Nancy never seems to get boy crazy and always puts her investigations first; thwarting criminals is her first love, and I respected her for that.

Three of the books I remember most strongly are The Sign of the Twisted Candles (in which there is a schism between Nancy and her chums Bess and George over a contested will), The Secret of the Golden Pavilion (in which the gang goes to Hawaii), and the more recent Captive Witness in which Nancy helps a professor rescue children from behind the Iron Curtain (which was especially intriguing to me as a child of the 80s, growing up during the Cold War).