Weronika Janczuk, aspiring novelist

I've had three emails in the last week from individuals who wanted to hear more about me and how I started writing. I have an odd feeling that it has to do with my age and I wonder, Perhaps I shouldn't be sharing it? I must share my age, however, because when I don't people assume I'm older; that miscommunication has put me in a sticky situation or two before. Regardless, I'm more than happy to put together a small autobiographical statement.

Have you ever seen the Beauty & the Beast scene in which Belle walks through town reading a book? That is me. I have always been the bookworm. I couldn't tell you when I fell in love with books, but I remember that in third or fourth grade my teacher sent me to the principal because I wouldn't put away the book I was reading, and my obsession with reading has not stopped; even now in high school when I'm in the midst of challenging classes I can't put books down. I've read (and continue to read) everything, from children's picture books to teen and YA novels, to commercial fiction, mystery, thriller, and Western stuff; I also enjoy literary nonfiction or academic writing about things that I am passionate.

In sixth grade, my Language Arts (English) teacher had my class do a "free write" every Friday. How I loved doing those! When my desk partner would write two or three sentences in big handwriting to fill up the one paragraph requirement, I would write two pages in my naturally small font--and then read it out loud to the class when the teacher asked for someone to share. It was in the spring of my sixth grade year that one of the free writes we had to do was on a topic I had no experience in. I can't remember what it was anymore, but I know that I asked the teacher if I could make something up, and she said yes. The rest, as they say, is history.

I completed my first manuscript, approximately 65k words, that summer, and entitled it ALLIE'S JOURNEY. I owe the entire experience that followed to my parents. They forked up $1000 for us to self-publish through Trafford Publishing, and we ordered one thousand copies of the novel and we sold almost every copy. I have just a few left over in a box that now sits in the back of my closet. It was an out-of-body experience for me: I had a "launch party" and read part of the first chapter, and then I proceeded to do a mini tour throughout the Twin Cities to communities with which I have connections. I learned almost everything that I know about writing, marketing, publishing, and editing prior to the publication in April of my seventh grade year. I tried my hand at literary agents--of course they would not take on something that is relatively poorly written. I am not surprised. Before my family was aware of potential publishing scams, we almost went through PublishAmerica, one of the largest scams out there today (according to Preditors & Editors), and we also got involved with a literary agent. Both were scared away once my age (thirteen) was mentioned. 

At some point I matured and realized that I was too young to pursue publication. I heard Christopher Paolini's story; he published for the first time at seventeen, so I still have a few months to meet his record, something that I'm doing my best to accomplish. I continued to write, therefore, but did not pursue publication.

After ALLIE'S JOURNEY, I completed DANGER'S SHADOW, the second part of the trilogy, and THROUGH THE DARK, the final portion. The second was approximately 95k and the third was 92k. After that, I wrote short books for middle school youth, four of them in total, all averaging around 40k. They are part of what I called the Football Brothers Series (lame, I know!). I thought then that it may be easier to try writing books for children, so I tried my hand at writing a children's picture book that I called INGA, and I tried to get that published. I was fifteen and still too young. The summer before tenth grade (almost two years ago) I wrote a 96k word novel entitled THE SUMMER OF RED GERANIUMS, which remains one of my favorite projects. I did not try my hand at getting that published and moved on. Now I am in the process of writing WHERE THE DOVES FLY, something you can follow along with here. I'm struggling with getting this started and am waiting for this summer to put something together. 

From the beginning, I've been actively writing poems, short stories, and articles, many of which have won awards and are published. My goal this summer is to make the jump into freelancing. I think I write well enough to get myself published in a magazine, especially since experience in different activities has fine tuned my researching abilities.


This fall I also begin my process of college applications. I am looking to major in Creative Writing (with a double major in Economics) and to break into the NYC publishing business. I'll be updating everyone about that process this summer.


Just for fun, I thought everyone would enjoy seeing a few things I wrote in my youth.

Here is a query letter I completed 8/10/06 (as I was attempting to get the book republished legitimately). This is absolutely embarrassing.

I recently completed a novel for the juvenile audience that is similar to [title of a novel], which I know your agency represents. I thought that you may be interested in taking a look at my manuscript, which I hope to market towards the middle and high school girl population.

I am a fifteen-year old teenager and have written various poems and short stories that have appeared in [names of magazines]. My essay “Being Who I Am” received the “Top Essay Grades 7-8-9” Award from Creative Communications, Inc., and was later published in the anthology “What Is Important to Me?” for the Midwest in the spring of 2005. Allie’s Journey was also self-published with the help of my parents that same year.

Allie’s Journey, a novel of 65,000 words, tells the story of Allie Peterson, a fifteen-year old girl whose parents go through a sudden and heart-breaking divorce. Allie and her mother move to Minnesota, where their new home burns down and leaves Allie both motherless and homeless. Written in first person, I bring out Allie’s most inner thoughts and goals as she travels across the United States of America in hope of finding her father and restarting her life. She experiences first love, responsibility, true friendship, and fear of the worst as well as discovering secrets about her parent’s past she knew nothing about.

Since I know that you are interested in [genre, new authors, philosophy, etc.], I am writing to ask if you would be interested in representing me. I am enclosing [whatever the agent requires], a press clipping from the self-publication of this novel in 2005, an endorsement from my past editor and English teacher, as well as a self-addressed stamped envelope with sufficient postage for a reply.

This manuscript has been submission multiple times. If you are interested in reading the entire manuscript, however, I will be happy to give you exclusivity for six weeks.

Here is a fragment from DANGER'S SHADOW; the first edit was completed 11/04/05.

Prologue

My name is Allie Peterson. I’m a fifteen-year-old girl who lives in Orlando, Florida, and I have one huge secret. It’s that secret that is very quickly leading me into a world of action and adventure.

If you have not yet heard me tell the story of my first adventure, you wouldn’t know that my secret is as follows: I am a CIA Agent and that I start my training for a mission far out in Poland. It’s going to be a hard journey that will take a lot of work and dedication. Not only that but I will also be risking my life!

Anyway, along my first journey a variety of people affected my life and me. First of all, I found a small baby boy, whose name was Tony. He taught me patience, kindness and how to have a more positive outlook on life.He also helped me become more mature.

Then, there was Peter. Peter. Man, I can’t say that name without tears coming to my eyes. He died trying to save me from a murderer, who is now in jail, but his memory lives in my heart. He showed me how to let people into my life and, even though he broke my heart, he is someone who is very important to me to this day. He was, of course, my first love.

There’s also Stephanie, my aunt, who I didn’t know existed until I found her living in old cabin in the woods – a total coincidence. Now, please don’t ask about that! It turned out she was part of the CIA and was assigned to watch me during my trek across the country. I can’t wait to work with her someday, which I know I will.

My life has changed – for the better, or for the worse, no one knows. I hope to uncover more secrets about my parent’s past and learn why all of this happened to me.

Yes, me.

Allie Peterson.

And, finally, here is a revised portion from THE SUMMER OF RED GERANIUMS, which I retitled PAINTING TULIPS. I never decided between the two. 

“Don’t fall too far behind!” my mother yelled as she sprinted across the barren field.

I hurried after her, not wanting to lose her from my sight. “Mom! Wait!”

My breath came in short gasps, tugging at my lungs, as I ran faster and faster, but the distance seemed only to grow larger and larger. Finally, as I came around a bend, I noticed that my mother, whose head was turned towards me, ran unconsciously towards an oncoming car.

The driver didn’t see her, it seemed.

"Mom! Watch out!”

Her eyes didn’t register my words. I let my hands fly out in front of me as I flew. It wasn’t too late. Not yet. If I could only reach her in time–

I blinked as sweat poured down my back. Darkness, complete darkness enveloped me and forced me to sit upwards to reach for a blanket, one that I had kicked away during the night. The cold air in the room hit me and I rubbed my shoulders with my fingers, hoping to bring warmth surging into my blood. 

“Damn, it’s freezing,” I muttered and stood from the bed, immediately slipping my feet into a pair of slippers, heading towards the window where I could see the light of the moon and stars.

Before pulling them aside, my fingers touched the layers of shades that I had drawn across my windows. The dawning light that flooded across the hillside filled my vision and I blinked with surprise. I had not realized that, even though the bedroom windows were on the north side of the house, I could easily see the light cast on the trees and the deck.

I figured it would be brighter in the kitchen, so I quickly decided to get dressed. I opened up the closet and, shifting through the dresses and skirts, chose a casual sundress made from dark orange and yellow colors, pulling it over my head. Then without paying much attention to the movement of my hands, I pulled my layers of blankets and covers across the bed in order to cover the tangled sheets, doing my best to straighten the corners.           

Having nothing to think about, the dream began to repeat itself in my mind. I did my best to cast it aside as I brushed through my curls, spraying some conditioner in and adding as much volume as I could to the hair–unwashed for three days–before applying lotion to my hands in haste. Stress built up in my shoulders during the routine. I wished that the dream would not ever return.

When I entered the living room, I noticed that the pot of soup sat isolated on the stove in the kitchen. I avoided the couches and then stepped onto the cool kitchen tile, feeling comforted by the coldness of the floor. My brain immediately began to process the feeling and I almost gasped when I realized that the center part of the house seemed to be hot and humid.

Air conditioning!

“Oh, man,” I whispered, then winced at the thought. It was hot and, after touring the house the day before, I had not noticed any type of air conditioning built in.

Upon setting the stove to a high temperature, I approached the wall and looked out onto the sea, feeling entranced by the endless blue waves rocketing towards shore. It would be remarkable to finally go try it out.

Even more enchanting were the double-hinges of the windows. After more careful inspection I discovered that the walls were divided into numerous panels of smaller windows. Without thinking about it twice, I opened every single window that spread across the walls in the dining room, kitchen and living room. A fresh breeze smelling of salt and uncontrolled wind filled the room. I felt refreshed, knowing that the next day opening only one or two windows would be enough to decrease the heat.

I tasted the soup leaning on the counter, sipping it a total of two times, then set it aside, feeling much less hungry than the evening before. My stomach was twisted in knots, refreshing my memory and reminding me that Danuta would be returning. I would be the center of attention.       

Still a bit time, I assumed after glancing at the grandfather clock, and placed the kettle resting on the counter near the stove on top of it in preparation for the water to boil. My hands reopened some of the cabinets and I pulled out the herbal tea I had packed with me, not being sure exactly what they drank in Gdansk. I tapped my fingers on the counter in exasperation, counting down seconds in my mind, and the minute I poured the boiling water into a cup, someone knocked on the door.

“No doorbell either?” I whispered then shook my head. I set the tea onto the dining room table. My eyes swept over the dining room to check the state of things and everything was still in its place. I hurried towards the door with the hopes of making a good impression. It opened easily and I let it swing towards me as I poked my head out to get my first glance at the couple.

No one stood immediately outside of the door. A few feet away on the grass stood a woman in her mid-forties, looking like an older version of my mother. My hands felt clammy as I pushed the door open further so she could step inside. It felt awkward to be opening the door for the owner of the cabin.

“Ebba?”

 I nodded. “Yes.”

She stared at me. Subconsciously I stepped towards the shadows cast by the doorway and tucked my hands behind my back to stand straight, as if for inspection. Her stare was kind, almost reliving a memory of time long ago.

“Help me with these suitcases, kiddo,” she muttered at last and I helped her drag two small black suitcases into the foyer. She donned her sweater and hung it into the closet before heading into the dining room. I saw her flick a glance at the cup of tea, but she turned instead to the refrigerator and rolled her eyes once she saw its emptiness. I stepped cautiously into the living room. “You know, you don’t look much Zuzia.” Susie. Mom.

“I don’t look much like either parent.”

“I noticed.” Danuta turned to me and smiled. “I don’t remember your father all that great, but you don’t remind me of him.”

I nodded and seated myself on the couch, forgetting the tea. Five minutes later Danuta sat down empty-handed and for a moment stared into space. “Did the cook come by yet?”

“No. I got here around four or five in the morning … and slept a bit. It’s–what?–three or four now?”

She glanced at the clock and nodded. “Yup.” I got my first chance to see her face completely and couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. She was in an odd way a copy of my mother with her darkened eyes and pale complexion, but her eyes expressed more emotion. “She’ll probably start tomorrow. A friend of mine mentioned that someone in her family got sick and she needed to stay and help a bit.”

“Okay.”

“She gets paid through me,” Danuta said and shot me a glance. “Not much, but enough.”

I nodded in understanding.

“So, how do you like the cabin so far?”

 “I love it.” I chose not to expand–I loved everything except the lack of air conditioning, old cabinets, a plastic wall unit, and no showerhead. I grimaced at the thought.

“Your momma did, too.”

“My mom?”

“Mm-hmm. She spent time at the cabin before you were born.”

“You’ve had it for that long?”

“Mm-hmm.”

For a moment, it seemed like one of those ‘Cool Facts’ you find about a state–who was born there, who lived there. I hated to talk about my mother the way we were talking about her … dead and out of our lives for good. “I saw the pictures …” I gestured at the wall behind me.

“Yeah. I have photo albums back in Warsaw. Maybe I can get one or two of them up here for you to see.” She sank into her thoughts. “Would you like to?”

“Of course.” I had never seen any pictures of my mother’s childhood, the years before she left for college, and I wanted to know exactly what had gone on during that time period.

“Great. I’ll try to get ‘em for you, kiddo.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, so let’s talk about how things work around here,” said Danuta with a sigh. She looked a bit pained to talk. “I have the job and I think I may have to tour a bit more this week. It depends on the publisher, though.” I wanted to ask her about the books she’d written, but she continued on at racecar speed. “I need help cleaning.”

“Sure.”

“And Katherine–the cook–will take care of the shopping. She’s paid for that, too. In that basket yonder” – Danuta pointed to a basket sitting in the kitchen– “you will find fresh bread, butter, cheese, milk, and some strawberry tea. I stopped by the market this morning.”

Market? As in open air? What about grocery stores? I nodded again, a curt nod that signaled I understood.

Danuta sighed. “I wanted to get a chance to watch you … uncover the world of your mother. My damn job. What a mess.” She smiled at me, a brush creeping up her cheeks.

I returned the smile. “It’s fine,” I began, but then stopped and shook my head. “I mean to say that I understand.” I blushed, too. “I would like to spend more time with you, but if you have to work, I understand.”

Danuta seemed to understand my clarification. Things between the two of us felt suddenly normal, as if we’d known each other for years. We settled into the couches, our legs underneath us, and as the grandfather clock ticked away signaling the passing of time, we talked about all of the things that had been hidden deep inside. I wondered if one week would be enough time for us to say everything that we wanted to say.

I enjoyed pulling out some of those things--they've been saved in the deepest corners of my computer for ages. It's time to wipe off some dust, eh? I won't go back to any of those projects--I'm learning so much and writing is expanding into new areas that I haven't solidified anything yet. It feels as if everything I work on is practice for something greater.

I was happy to share--and I hope to get some feedback. What do you think? (Generally, of course. I know the writing is a failure!)

Cheers!