The 39 Clues consumed my childhood. I think I was 10 when I discovered it, and at that time the original series was still being written. I remember the breathless anticipation, mock clue hunts, and identity crises that characterised my obsession.
Now I've grown up: I'm 18 and a half, in university, living alone in a wide new city. And though my passion has cooled off considerably, I still find remnants of my clue-hunting self when I'm people-watching on the train, or reading history books, or finding hidden laneways, or learning languages, or researching destinations I plan on going to. In a sense, the series complemented - if not developed - my striving for cosmopolitanism.
I started off as a Janus; my artistic sensitivity, which has only increased with time, makes up for the lack of talent. I'm currently studying for an Ekat career; my striving for independent self-mastery is Lucian; and I've come to have a Tomas-like appreciation for physical development. I'd say I've finally been able to embody my Madrigal status.
In short, I've grown up a lot, and the pencil marks and ink-stains of The 39 Clues smudge my personal bildungsroman.