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Dorothea Graham Jensen
a book bubble about
The Riddle of Penncroft Farm
Children's Books
Author Insight
My Prize-Winning Chapter
This is part of the chapter I submitted for a children's literature competition at The Loft, a Minnesota writers' organization. When I sent it in, I decided to give my name as D. G. Jensen, so the judges would not know my gender. As my main character is a boy, I didn't want them to start reading the manuscript looking for ways in which a woman author failed to portray him realistically. (I'm a bit paranoid.) The winners were to be announced in April. In February, however, my phone rang. "Is this D. G. Jensen? I'm calling from The Loft, and I need to know how your first name is spelled," said the caller. "Why do you need to know that?," I asked, knowing my cover was about to be blown. "So we know who to make the check out to. You won." "D-O-R-O-T-H-E-A," I spelled hastily. I soon read this chapter aloud at the award ceremony, was interviewed on MPR and was on my way as an author!
Book Excerpt
The Riddle of Penncroft Farm
The wooden sides of the barn—or what was left of it—were weathered to a gray that matched the foundation stones. There was a full top story, but because the barn was set into the hill, the ground floor was only about the size of our Minneapolis garage, much to my relief.
A wide door ran across the lower level. I gave it a shove, and the door creaked open on ancient iron hinges. I entered the dark inside, groping for a light switch as I went. I couldn’t find one.
“Swell. How can I clean this place if I can’t see what I’m doing?” I asked, wasting good sarcasm on an empty barn. Moving gingerly along the wall, I touched a large, round, metallic object that felt nothing like a light switch. It clattered to the floor. I slid my foot around until I found it, then carried it across to the door for a closer look. It was a flat metal sieve, covered with cobwebs, red with rust, and bigger than any sieve I’d ever seen.
Perplexed, I murmured, “I’d hate to have to eat any macaroni that was strained in this . . . this . . . whatever it is!”
“’Tis a riddle,” said a voice in my ear.
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