A Writer's Notebook

The Housekeeper's Son: The Making of a Novel

2012-02-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

Since when I was a child, I've always been fascinated by the supernatural. I love ghost stories, horror movies, and gloomy weathers. I remember believing that I was Damien (after watching The Omen) in grade school, standing on the balcony of the second floor in my school, looking down at all the kids, feeling like I owned them. Creepy, right? Well, that explains how I garnered the title of "School Nightmare." I held it quite proudly, thinking that I was untouchable. The school bullies actually started to avoid me--and I thought my evil powers from the dark side had prevailed--because they knew something was not quite right with me upstairs. Whenever they approached me with their pulled up sleeves and their propped up collars (this was the 80's, mind you), I'd stare at them with pure intensity. In my mind, I was trying to control them; I feared no one. In their minds, I was quite the loony, and no one messed with the loony! Looking back, I wish none of that had ever happened.

Fast forward a few more years. Now, I was quite the teenager, with teenage angst and determination. But the dark side still lingered. Slasher movies started trending and I was caught right in the middle. I imagined myself solving crimes, puzzling together murder mysteries. I was intrigued by the news--the ones that involved deaths by the plenty. There was this incident that involved a man who'd chopped off his wife and children, put them in a pot, and made a nice pot of curry with them. He owned a restaurant, and that day, the food was particularly good. It was a sad piece of news, but an outstanding one. Imagine the headlines: "Man Made Curry Out of Wife and Children." Not in the food and dining section of the newspaper, but the front page. That was a thrill to me. And I pursued my interest in the red and gory.

Then I grew up, quite quickly, too. I learned of more important things--hard work, friendship, and the importance of academia. I fell in love with the English word. My fixation now was literature and mastering the language both in writing and speech. I joined the local Toasmasters organization, subscribed to Reader's Digest, and started reading every book written by Enid Blyton. And when the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series came out, I bought them all. I went to every book fair I could, pestered my parents into spending money on magazines, books, newspapers, and such. My obsession in books became my pastime and my only form of solace in difficult times. But still, I found myself perusing the shelves of bookstores for the ultimate ghost story. Real ones, dark ones, scary ones.

I wrote my first book at the age of 16. I didn't know what I was doing at that time, I just wrote. And my stories were more bleak than bright. It was like Angela's Ashes times a thousand. The difference was Frank McCourt wrote with a heart, and I wrote with . . . well, an inexperienced mind and a novice's pen. Which wasn't any good. While I recognized my limitations, I never gave up writing. I never stopped. If anything, my passion to create and write my own stories propelled me to read much more than I thought I was able to. In college, the night before my Victorian Literature finals, I forsook my studies and picked up Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club. I finished it in one night and went to face my finals the next morning feeling dazed, tired--I hadn't slept all night--but completely inspired. And that was when I knew what I was born to do--write. Because books made me happy.

As the years passed, I fell in love, got married, found a job, started my career, and became a father. And this was the time when I was most inspired to write. I started to revisit my years growing up, those stupid moments when innocence and ignorance took charge, and found something from every obsession in my life--the ghosts, the murders, the blood, the mystery, the darkness, the gloom--that I could use in my book. (Given my very bleak obsession, I am quite the happy one, really. My obsession is my interest, not my character.) But even with all those wonderful elements, I am still lacking some heart. There was no substance for a story about ghosts or dark things. There was no reason to read it, or love it.

And then came my wife, the mother of my child. As I saw her care for our son, nurture him, and how she held his hands and conversed with him, I was prompted to look at my own childhood when my mother did the same. I remembered the nights when I cuddled under the blankets with her--my brother and I would beg her for stories from her own childhood, which she was always so glad to share--the times when she dressed my wounds after I fell, the stormy nights when I sought her for comfort and protection, the days when we laughed together like friends of times past. There was no horror or darkness in these moments. The only hint of gloom was the vulnerability of a human life and my fear of loss and dying. One day, our loved ones will leave us, and the only things that remain will be the memories of a time long gone. Happier times. Good times. And that fear--that one day all that I had ever loved would be taken from me--was all it took for me to write The Housekeeper's Son. It begs the question: "How far would you go to love someone?"

The answer lies in The Housekeeper's Son.

The Housekeeper's Son, my debut novel, will be available where books are sold May 19, 2012.

The Eversoft Cottontail Milk Rolls

2011-10-08T18:12:00.002-06:00

Due to the high and increasing demands for my softest roll recipe (ever)--and after much debate with myself as to whether or not to divulge such a secret--I have decided to share it with the world and my friends who requested it. So here I am introducing the best rolls ever (and yes, it's better that any of your aunts' or grandmas' recipes, period; and yes, I am so confident that this will replace your grandma's sweet rolls forever; and no, I won't tell):

The Roux
The roux is basically your lifesaver. When made correctly, it will keep your bread soft and moist for days. Here are the ingredients:

1/4 cup flour
1 1/4 cup water

Method: Mix the flour and water in a saucepan and heat at medium heat. Stir constantly until it becomes gooey. Your roux is done when you see streaks as you stir it. Remove from stove and pour it into a Pyrex bowl. Immediately cover with cling film. Make sure the film touches the surface of the roux to prevent any "skin" from forming overnight. When the roux is cooled to room temperature, store it in the fridge for one day. It has to cool in the fridge for about a day before use.

The Rolls
The key ingredients to a soft roll are eggs, milk, buttermilk, and oil. Unlike conventional recipes that call for melted butter and warm milk, I use canola oil and cold milk. The oil keeps the bread soft and fluffy even after a day, and the cold milk slows down the proofing process so your bread is spongy and not filled with irregular holes and air bubbles. Bread that has big holes is usually called focaccia. Here are the ingredients:

1 cup cold milk
5 tbs buttermilk powder (you can also use milk powder)
5 tbs canola oil (remember, if you use olive oil, the texture will change because olive oil is acidic)
1 large egg
5 tbs sugar (you may use honey)
1 tsp salt (I prefer kosher, but whatever)
2 1/2 tsp instant yeast
3 cups bread flour (it has to be bread flour; if you use all-purpose flour, make sure you add 1 tbs gluten flour for every cup of plain flour you use)
1 cup all-purpose flour (you may use whole wheat flour)
1/2 of your roux

Method: Mix all the dry ingredients together and add in the wet ingredients. Stir with a spatula until a wet, messy dough forms. Now you may knead it with your Kitchen Aid mixer with a dough hook for 8 minutes. If you use your good'ol hands, good luck. At least you'll grow some pretty mean biceps in time. But make sure you oil the counter surface for easy kneading. I do not suggest flouring your counter. Your dough, when done, can be rather sticky. Don't you worry. It's okay. Cover your dough with cling film and let it rise until double its size. It can take up to 2 hours for some locations.

When the dough is proofed, you may roll it out and cut it into equal pieces. Form them into nice balls and place them side by side (yes, the rolls need to be literally next to each other, lightly touching on the sides) on a lined or greased baking pan. Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Cover the rolls with cling film and let rise again until double the size. This can take up to an hour.

Once done, bake for 16 minutes until the top is golden brown. It's normal to have the sides and bottoms still fairly white. Remove from oven and brush a coat of butter on the rolls, generously, and leave to cool. Once it is cool, the crust should soften and your rolls are ready to eat. Store uneaten ones in a bread bag and seal it nicely. This can be stored for up to a week (if they last that long).

Please feel free to comment on my blog and let me know how your bread turns out. I love a success story. And should you like what I post, you may follow my blog and request for more recipes.

Good luck, and bon a petit!

What I Learned in Life So Far: Giving Up Is Not An Option

2011-08-06T16:33:00.002-06:00

There have been times when you just want to raise your hands and surrender. Things are just not happening for you no matter how much you try. It's just so much easier to give up and move on to better things than to concentrate on everything you cannot do. But the events of my life have taught me otherwise--giving up is not an option.

Imagine, if everyone gives up every time he thinks he is not able to make it, there will be no achievements. Without achievements, you might as well not live. So here's my advice: Never give up on the small things, because they are the making of bigger things.

My life has been somewhat of a roller coaster, which is not a bad thing, because I learned a lot. I am constantly asking myself, "Am I going to make it? Should I call it quits?" The easy way out is always to drop everything and walk away. But what does that say about your character if you were to do that?

Someone once told me, "Life is not about winning everything. You can't possibly win in everything. It's okay to lose sometimes." Well, life may not always be about winning, but it is definitely not about losing either. To me, life is all about not giving up, not stopping halfway because you don't believe you can make it. My philosophy is, you've already come so far, why not finish it? Why not reach the finishing line. You may not win first place, but you're definitely a winner. You made it through, and that is worth everything.

Here are 5 things I've learned never to give up on. There are lessons to be learned in life, and these have become my mantra:

Never give up on family--No matter how they come, your family is your blood. And when all things fail, they may be your only hope.
Never give up on friends--Friends are as good as family. You don't need many, all you need is a handful that will stay with you through rain or shine. And the best thing about friends is that they are sometimes better than family. Remember, blood doesn't always make family, time does.
Never give up on life--Your life is a vessel of endless possibilities. Never ever give it up. You are the captain of your destiny, steer your ship well, and you'll reach high places.
Never give up on your dreams--Dreamers are the saviors of the world. If you have a dream, then you have every responsibility to achieve it, for a dream without action is merely fantasy. Everything you see around you happens because someone dreamed it and made it come true. Thomas Edison gave us light because he never gave up on his dream.
Never give up on yourself--This is self-explanatory. Give up on yourself and you might as well not exist. If you think you are worth anything at all, then there is no room for surrender. You fight till the end. You fight for what's most important to you--your rights, your voice, your freedom. You fight like you've never fought before, and that alone is something worth living for.

And remember, no matter what comes at you in life, smile. Always.

No Distraction

2011-06-27T01:42:00.000-06:00

After returning from Chicago with a much sought-after award, I am beginning to feel a fire surging from within. It is the fire of ambition and success, and I can feel it in my bones. Focus is needed. And passion, too. Which is why I feel it important to start letting go of some of the things I like in life in exchange for my dream. It's the ultimate sacrifice. So here's the deal--no distraction.

If you stand in my way, I will have to kindly ask you to move to the side. And if you do not take my polite gesture seriously, I shall crush you, for I will plough through this path to success like a tractor on a wheat field. But not to worry, I will never forget to be kind and and humble. Because I, too, stoop to conquer.

And conquer I will.

This Thing We Call Death

2011-05-06T01:41:00.000-06:00

As I was revising my manuscript the other day, I came upon a section that I'd written about the death of a character in my book. This business of death is a peculiar thing. It haunts us, yet it teaches us to live. Death is sad, yet beautiful.

And here I am writing about the death of a friend the way I see it. Hope you love it:

At exactly nine the next morning, Eleanor picked up the receiver and answered an unexpected telephone call. Janice Farmer was on the other line, sobbing unendingly while trying to make sense of her own words. In between the intermittent static and her sniveling, she managed to tell Eleanor the bad news; her volume rose and fell, which sounded like she was pulling further from and closer to the receiver at the same time, an expression that was neither frantic nor excited, burrowed in a mixture of eagerness and distress—the up and down migration of a weak heart.

Brother Joseph Young had suffered from a sudden heart attack the night before. It had happened while he was taking his shower; his body had slipped onto the wet, tiled floor, his limbs sprawled open, dangling stiffly over the rim of the bathtub until the ambulance came to collect his body five hours later. Had Mrs. Ramirez, his neighbor, not knocked on his door to borrow some sugar, Brother Young would have been left there alone to rot and decompose before anyone would ever discover his inexpedient death.

Upon hearing the news, Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth, resting on the lower lip; a part of her quivered. It was only a few weeks ago that she’d seen him, dined with him, listened to him chew his food, his dentures clucking quietly inside his mouth; she’d let him drive her home in his brown truck that coughed and choked—though without incident—all the way back to the Cunningham house. Once, between the truck and the front door, Eleanor had thought the night was somewhat magical. Weird as it was, serendipity had played a game on her fragile heart, that maybe Brother Young—the farmer who had only recently lost his dear wife, for which Eleanor had pitied him—could be a good thing in her life, even by the slightest chance. She had managed to steal a smile as she sauntered toward the house with the old farmer pacing beside her, his hands tucked in his pockets. But all that—whatever it was, however it had started—would now be buried deep down a chasm between here and there, never to resurface again. Eleanor would make sure of that. Janice Farmer’s voice continued to squeak in her ear. Without saying goodbye Eleanor put the receiver down quietly until it made a click. She would say her apologies later.

Standing there by the phone, Eleanor stared blankly into the vacant living room as a cone of sunlight beamed from a window, thinking of the fragility of life. You could be enjoying the afternoon breeze one day watching a blazing sunset behind majestic mountains, and come next day, you could very well plop over and die without warning. There was a lesson to be learned here. Eleanor shook her head, pursed her lips, and thought of how she could have made a difference.

“I could’ve made him chicken noodle soup,” Eleanor said to herself. “I could’ve saved a life. What a pity. What a damn, bloody pity.”

The World Between Yours and Mine

2011-04-18T00:24:00.001-06:00

When we measure distance, we use a ruler, a metric system that is tangible and consistent. When we measure a relationship, the distance between two minds can be as vast as our galaxy, yet so close you can hear each other's heartbeat. Our minds are so powerful that we can actually speak to each other without actually opening our mouth. All we have to do is believe that there is a connection between two minds, two hearts--two worlds that are as tangible as the ground we walk on, and as real as the rising sun.

Spoken words are unnecessary to communicate the heart. If there's a connection between two minds, then a path will have already been established, thus speaking is not needed anymore. What one thinks, the other does, and vice versa. When we have reached this stage in a relationship, our minds project brain waves that beat to the rhythm of the earth, and it is beautiful.

In today's society, people do not believe in the power within themselves anymore. They rely on machines and technology to express themselves. In time, the mysticism of life dissipates, and people begin to forget the very thing that fuels their lives, which is the power to connect. We tend to see the absence of a conversation as a negative thing; silence becomes noisy, and noise becomes a necessary filler in most relationships. We think that by filling in the void with words we can avoid the quiet stares and the awkward silence between two people. In truth, the most beautiful of all relationships requires no talking at all. Just the connection between two minds. One single look, a lift of a brow, or a twitch of a mouth can speak volume in expressing what's in the heart. In most cases, the mere company of each other is already enough to fill the heart with two lifetimes of love.

The relationship between two people is a world immeasurable. It's ever moving, ever changing. We can't afford to wait for tomorrow to express our love, for we live life but once. If we miss this opportunity, we may not have the chance again. Words are not needed. Just your thoughts, your actions, your commitment, and your mind. If you have a connection, solidify it. If you have feelings, build them. And if it is too far, yet so close, will it. The universe hears you and will respond. Do not stop trying. Love and be loved.

The space between you and me is not that vast. We can do something about it and change the world we live in. We only live life once, let's not take relationships for granted!

Communicate your love, connect . . . wait, someone just poked me on Facebook. Gotta poke back. And what just beeped? Oh, it's a text message. And what's this? An email in the middle of the night! C'mon, guys I meant connect using your minds! Well, alright, I'll poke back, but just this once! Gosh!

Communication Between Parent and Child Across Three Cultures: A Case Study

2011-03-13T00:29:00.000-07:00

Upon studying the ways Americans, English, and Chinese communicate, I have come to a conclusion that one single message can mean so many things when spoken differently. Let's face it, Americans and English speak different Englishes. A single "How do you do" will prompt an American to say "Fine" when she should've answered with the same "How do you do."

Likewise, a single "What's up?" will prompt an English to answer, "The sky, perhaps" when all one needs to say is "Not much." In America, people aren't really interested in "what is up" per se, or how you're really doing. You don't have to spill out everything that happened to you that day. In other words, when an American says "What's up?" or "How're ya doin'?" just answer, "Not much." It is unlikely that an American will sit and listen to your complaints should you ever answer, "Oh, I've had a crappy day." Along the same line, "How do you do" in English is not really a question; it's a statement that should've been answered with the same statement. It's a common English greeting, not an expression of interest.

Now, the Chinese are a complete opposite. When a Chinese says "Ni hao (How are you?)" you should answer, "Ni hao" and nothing else. Never mind divulging everything that has happened to you thus far that day, it's just going to fall on deaf ears. On the other hand, a man from Beijing will greet you with "Chi guo le ma?" meaning "Have you eaten?" which seems like an odd way to greet someone, but that's how it's done in Northern China. You greet a person by asking if he has already eaten, and he will answer back with "Yes, I have, thank you." Again, you don't want to answer, "No, I haven't" because you may put your greeter in a difficult position--to feed you!

Here's an illustration on how Americans, English, and Chinese tell their child that she is overweight (I chose a difficult subject to tackle due to its sensitivity):

The Americans

Parent: Britney, you look great in that dress.

Child: Thanks, Mom.

Parent: Looks like you've grown. That dress seems a little tight on you.

Child: Really? We just got it last week, remember?

Parent: You sure? Well, doesn't matter. We'll get you another one that fits. You know what they say about cotton: it shrinks. How about a shopping spree just you and me today?

Child: Cool.

Parent: Hey, I was just thinking about how I am so out of shape. So I got myself a gym membership. I got you one, too, so we can go together. I need company. You game?

Child: Count me in, Mom!

Conclusion: As you can see, the American parent does not really tell her daughter directly that she's overweight. Instead, she tackled the subject with much courtesy and diplomacy. The result is quite astounding; the daughter is willing to go on a healthy regimen without feeling bad about her physical state.

The English

Parent: Sybil, dear, what have you been chomping lately?

Child: Nothing, Mother, just the usual cakes and crumpets. Why do you ask?

Parent: I think you're looking quite rotund lately. Lose the chubs, dear, for your sake and that of your future husband.

Child: Mother, you know fairly well that I've always had my baby fat.

Parent: Baby fat, my foot! Sybil, I'm being very civil about your weight here, goodness knows what other people are going to say. The last thing I want to hear from your notorious Aunt Mable is that you're fatter than ever. I don't think that's what you want to hear either, do you?

Child: I can't believe we're actually having this conversation.

Parent: Well, we are, dear. So get used to it. Obesity is one thing Americans are good at, not us English. I suggest you do something about it.

Child: I suppose.

Parent: Well then, get on with it, and make the English proud.

Conclusion: The English's approach is stark, yet witty with a hint of sarcasm and patriotism. There's no time to be nice; the message needs to be straight and forward. Notice, the notion that Americans are less superior is often brought up. In other words, English pride reigns supreme in every English conversation no matter the length and importance. And they always love to compare themselves with Americans. A conundrum, really.

The Chinese

Parent: Ah Mei, you now fat! You better lose weight fast.

Child: Thank you for teaching me to look good, Mother.

Parent: I say you fat because I love you. I want you to be beautiful and healthy. Fat no good. You just fat now.

Child: Mother, I stop eating now.

Parent: You make me proud. Your ancestors are proud, too. Look at Lisa, she very thin, very pretty, all men like. She weighs 75 lbs. You are 100 lbs. Must lose 30 lbs in a week. I know you can do it.

Child: I will only fruits and drink tea. I will exercise 10 hours a day. I will hide in my room until I become beautiful so I won't embarrass family and ancestors.

Parent: Fat no good, Ah Mei. Fat no good. I am bad mother to even let you go fat.

Child: Mother, it is my fault to eat so much noodles and roast pork. I will make you proud. Promise.

Conclusion: The Chinese is even more direct that the English minus the sarcasm and wit. If you are fat, you are fat. And achieving perfection is the key to life. The parent strives to make her ancestors proud, to carry the family name with her head held high. The daughter understands the parent's burden and will do anything to make that happen no matter the difficulty. Filial piety and complete submission are important and crucial.

(I should be writing my closing here, but I really don't need to. The examples above speak for themselves. Do write with your comments, I'd love to hear them all.)

Bad Upbringing

2011-03-03T23:37:00.001-07:00

There are certain people in this world who think that sitting right in the middle of your doorway is A-Okay. Well, news flash: It's NOT! So here's my problem: I work in an office. I usually close my door because the factory workers who work in the same building yak a lot during their breaks (way too much even for my taste). They are usually loud and obnoxious. That's why I close my office door. I don't want to know who got who pregnant and whose uncle went to jail (you get the idea). Break time in the building is like Prison Break, except that these "prisoners" don't ever leave. They just linger forever to yak, yak, yak about their whole life story.

Now here's the kicker: Every time I open my office door to exit, I find one of these "prisoners" sitting right in the middle of the doorway. And they don't excuse themselves either, which is why I am so upset. I have to literally push my way out of my own office like trying to get on one of those Japanese subway trains with hundreds of people sandwiched in between. Except that I am in my office. I shouldn't need to do that. So I came up with a solution. I started to work with my door open thinking these minions will somehow register in their pea brains that I am actually in the office and will eventually use the doorway to enter or exit. And still, I never fail to find a factory employee sitting complacently right in the middle of my freakin' doorway! Are these people so thick that they don't even know where NOT to sit?

I discussed this with my wife and all she did was shake her head and say, "Bad upbringing." And that got me thinking. I should not be angry with these people just because they are in my way. In fact, I should be more empathetic; I should put myself in their shoes and understand how it is like to be brought in homes that don't enforce PROPER ETIQUETTE!

As Johann von Goethe once said, "A man's manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait," and that's probably why I keep seeing ugly people everywhere nowadays. Ugh.

But no matter, I will make a conscious effort to feel less upset now whenever I see Mr. Big Butt or Miss I-Am-Too-Heavy-to-Move propped in the middle of my office doorway. I'm just going to shake my head and sigh, "Bad upbringing."

Now get out of my doorway!

Wait, It's Already 2011?

2011-03-01T23:55:00.006-07:00

Wait a minute, it's already 2011? No way! I must've been sleeping all this time. No, wait, I remember. I was sauntering down 45th Avenue and saw this green thing that kept hopping next to me. I leaned over immediately to see what it was, and there in front of me was a grinning, slimy frog. I was about to step on it--you all know how I love to step on frogs, right?--when it started to talk (this was the part when I almost passed out, but for some reason I didn't).

"Do me a favor, handsome," it croaked, "kiss me and I'll be your princess forever. I'm pretty and extremely talented. I can make you a happy husband." Another grin.

"Oh, I'm married, miss. I won't be kissing any princess anytime soon, let alone a frog," I said, quickening my pace.

You see, I was on 45th Avenue for a purpose, and that was to visit my favorite bookstore on number 276. It was an antique bookstore located in one of those grungy basements that looked like a tarantula lair. All I wanted to do was to go peruse some old books and get home.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. I brushed the frog off and gave it a nasty sneer, but the good-for-nothing amphibian kept catching up with me. To tell you the truth, it was quite a persistent little nut job. So I stopped, humphing something in French under my breath, and asked the frog to leave me alone or I'd eat it in something kungpao (the good thing about being Chinese is that I can eat anything). Then I saw a tear, and it was so clear I actually saw my reflection in it; I realized just how handsome I really was. So I stooped and said, "Well, green frog. I'm not sure why you'd bother yourself with me, but I'd kiss you for ten bucks."

"Deal!"

At this point, I couldn't be bothered if the amphibian was really a princess after all, but I'd read enough stories to know that if I should kiss it, it could transform itself into a beautiful princess. So what the heck, I did it. I kissed it. One big, wet smooch! My mouth was all slimy after that, but I didn't care. I wanted a princess. A rich one, too!

But nothing happened. The frog politely said thank you and started to hop away.

"Hey, wait a minute you little green thing!" I yelled. "You are supposed to turn into a princess."

"No need to."

"What do you mean, no need? You promised!"

"I'm already a princess. My name is Princess Katak, and I am the princess of Swamp Kingdom located just down that gutter over there." For some reason she was all smiles, and I knew right away that she was telling the truth. It was the royal smile, I must say, that gave me the assurance that she was true royalty. But who cares, where was my princess?

"I asked for a kiss and you gave it. I told you I was a princess, and I am. I never said anything about turning into a human princess," she continued. "And just so you know, I am beautiful by amphibian standards."

My head was already giddy. I should be at a bookstore by now. "Okay, never mind the fact that you misled me, but I want my ten bucks as promised. NOW!"

"In my world, our money is our spit. One spit for every buck. Ready for it? I'd love to pay you."

At this point, I was beyond speechless; I was beginning to forget many things, including my name and my purpose in life. I did not respond.

"I thought so," the green thing snapped before hopping away toward gutterland. I guess I must have fainted or something because I cannot remember anything else after that. All that I recall is waking up next to my wife sometime in March. And the rest is history. But hey, I'm back, right, which is reason enough for everyone to jump hysterically in celebration. So there.

Susan Miller's Prediction

2010-03-05T09:33:00.002-07:00

Well, here I am again, after a short hiatus, but I'm still alive, and that's what matters. First, a few updates.

Since the last thanks-but-no-thanks letter I got, I have been hungrily pursuing more and more agents, sending out queries and tracking them. But so far, no response yet. That doesn't mean all is lost. I am very happy to announce that after asking for a partial, the Irene Goodman Agency asked for a full, which was exciting news for me. I was jumping up and down, tumbling down my stairs, and doing the pirouettes like . . . you get the jest! Yes, I was ecstatic at the very least.

So that was 3 weeks ago, and I'm still waiting for the good news. Normally, from what I've read, if an agent keeps your full for about 3-4 weeks, that means you still have hope. This is because if it is so bad, you'd gave received a rejection already. So, I am crossing my fingers, hoping to die (not literally, of course!).

Now what about Susan Miller? She's my personal soothsayer, my gypsy woman without the crystal ball. She's my horoscope reader. And she's good! She reads from the planets and the stars and predicts your future, kinda like a guidance thingy--not so much of dictating your life, but giving it direction. So far, everything is exactly as she has predicted. She says that I'll be offered a contract I cannot resist, one that promises a huge sum of money and wealth! And it's going to happen this Sunday (give and take four days). So, I'm waiting. She says that if I'm a writer, I will make it this year. And I'm still waiting.

But put that aside for a second and let's talk about the wonders of query tracker. My dear friend and writer, Dorette Snover, actually recommended it to me. I used to have to track all of my queries on an Excel spreadsheet, convenient yet pain-in-the-butt. But with query tracker, everything is easy, and I mean EASY! I can search for agents within a specific category and keep them in a folder. I can update them as I query them, and query tracker will show me an icon next to each of the agents I queried, indicating the status of my query. This way, I know how long ago I've sent a specific query. Well, there's more, but you'll have to discover it yourself. And to Dorette, thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope I get an autographed copy of your debut novel very soon!

Here's my plan for the next few weeks. Query, query, query. They say don't sign with the first agent who offers representation. So that means I need to have choices. What if Irene Goodman wants to sign me up before anyone else does? Well, I'll just kindly ask for a day or two of pondering and praying time before giving them an answer. And then I'll just call them back and ask them a bunch of questions to make sure I am a good fit for them and vice versa. And then, finally, I'll just say YES!! Yes, yes, and yes! And that's how I picture everything to unfold should I not have any other choice.

Anyway, I'll keep pursuing my dream, and when I get there, I WILL NOT forget the little people. Haha! Keep on swimming, keep on swimming . . .

Weronika Janczuk and All Her Greatness!

2010-01-11T16:21:00.005-07:00

So today when I opened my email, I saw, among a plethora of rejections, one shining light at the end of the tunnel. It was from the Bent Agency in NY. I had queried this agency in the first week of December last year (it seems so long, but trust me, it is not), and she just finally responded, asking for the first 10 pages of my MS.

Okay, it was not the great Ms. Jenny Bent who wrote back, but her new intern, Ms. Janczuk, who currently has a pretty popular internet presence. Apparently, she's also an up and coming writer, blogger, and social network enthusiast. She could've rejected me because I did not include the first 10 pages of my MS in my query as instructed, but she didn't. Does that mean I have a sliver of hope yet? Or is she just teasing the fish? Here's the email I got:

Thank you for your interest in our agency. Per Jenny's guidelines, please send the first ten pages of your manuscript, along with the original query, to this email address - embed both in the body of the message.
 Add "ATTN: Weronika" to the original subject line.

Sincerely,

Weronika Janczuk
Intern, The Bent Agency



What do you think?

Please Resend!

2009-12-14T12:39:00.002-07:00

Good news (or am I just too excited to be getting anything other than a form rejection?)! I received an email from an agent who did not reject me but asked me to resend my query and the first 50 pages of my manuscript to her after January 15. Now, of course, I naturally jumped in great joy and celebration because it was, after all, not a rejection. So here's the connundrum: What does it really mean when an agent asks you to resend your query after a certain date? Does it mean that she did not have the time to read it before the holidays, or did she think my manuscript is somewhat interesting to her? All she wrote was:

Dear Christopher,

Please resend after January 15.

Seriously, that was it. So, to those who have had this similar experience, please give me some kind of an idea as to what all this means. I am leaning toward the positive side, hoping that somehow my manuscript is good enough for some agents and publishers. As I always tell myself, there is hope yet. Love and kisses!

An Acceptable Rejection

2009-12-02T12:08:00.003-07:00

You see, after a few rejections from literary agents from all over the country, I am beginning to feel a little disappointed. But there is hope yet in the many other agents who are mulling over my query, deciding if my MS will help them earn their millions. To the already seasoned agents, I am but a budding writer who will do anything to get published, and they know my future is in their hands. But to the new agents who are trying to get a good client list, their future is in my hands. See how the tables turn? So it's all good.

Anyway, I just received a rejection letter from one of the few agents who actually wrote me a personal note. And I thought it was cute (although it was a rejection). I will post it here for you to read. I enjoy reading rejection letters with a touch of soul and personality, and this rejection has everything I deem as personal. Here goes:

Thank you for the query, although I do not think that I would be the
right agent for this particular novel (violent death of a young child just too offputting for squeamish me).

Sincerely,
Diana Finch

I'll be posting more letters from agents as I receive them. Oh, and I also changed my query a bit just to spark more interest. Here's my latest query, tell me what you think?

Dear Agent:

When 72-year-old housekeeper, Eleanor Ethel Rose, is found with a bloody knife in her hand beside the dead body of Katherine Cunningham, her employer’s 12-year-old daughter, she quickly admits to the crime and surrenders herself, pleading guilty before her trial even begins. But to Vincent Lee, a young journalist who is assigned to cover the story, there is more to Eleanor’s confession.

What he discovers is a secret that, if revealed, will not only explain Katherine’s death, it will also challenge the moral obligation of every mother to her child. It is a secret that started thirty-nine years ago on the night Eleanor took the life of her only son.

The Housekeeper's Son, a 77,000 word work of literary fiction, explores the power and vulnerability of a mother's love for her child. I am a corporate writer in the nutraceutical industry and a graduate of Utah State University where I received my Master of Arts in Communication. Before that, I was a journalist, a chapter president for the League of Utah Writers, and a proofreader for Houghton Mifflin. When I’m not writing, I indulge myself in good books and dissecting social issues.

Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Christopher Loke

Alright, gotta go send out more queries and start dreaming big.

The Man Who Sat Alone

2009-11-17T13:08:00.003-07:00

Let me tell you the short story of a man who sits alone. This guy lived as one of the many characters in my book. But he did not make it past chapter five. The reason: I hated him. I did not even give him a name. But you shall know him as the man who sat alone (he does not even deserve title caps).

Anyway, all he did was sit alone; he did not get along with anyone. I placed him in a scene with the nicest people in my book in chapter two, and he pissed them off big time. I gave him a second chance in the third chapter and allowed him to correct his mistakes. But instead, he broke the heart of the funniest character ever in the book. As God, I gave him yet another chance to redeem himself.

In chapter four, I let him sit all alone in a corner so he could just exist without bothering anyone. And even in that secluded place, he managed to go out of his way to destroy the peace of everyone around him. By now, I knew what best to do.

So, in chapter five, I took out his heart and fed it to the dogs, and let the rest of my nicest characters feed on him. But they refused. Too much filth, they said. So, I had no choice but to transform the rest of his heartless body into a fat turkey, cut him up and deliver it to the poor and needy for Thanksgiving. At least now he can contribute to others.

But what about his soul? No worries. I gave it to Stephen King who has other plans for it in his next book. And now I can finally rest and continue with the rest of my writing career.

My next book? "The Dog Who Ate a Man With No Heart."

Die! Die! Die!

2009-11-10T15:40:00.004-07:00

Last night, on the way home from the movies--and we were completely happy campers, singing in the car and loving life and blowing kisses to everyone we saw--we stopped at a railway crossing while the train approached. Hayden was excited to see the train and we wound down the window and said, "Look, Hayden! It's a train, and it's coming this way. Yay!" Yes, we were happy campers, until we felt a huge bump from behind. Apparently, the Mitsubish Lancer from behind had rolled off its brakes and hit my bumper.

Straightaway, the mood changed. I stepped out of my car, headed over to the Lancer and demanded to speak to the driver. The driver, a Polynesian lady with unattractive voice started to stammer. She started to tell me how minute the bump was and how she was on the phone because her sister was in the hospital in the ICU unit (whatever that was) and how her husband had called to see how her sister was doing and how she had accidentally let go of her brakes and how the car rolled and how it hit my car. I was fuming, though I bit my tongue. What in the world was she thinking? It is people like her that cause accidents on the freeway, making everyone late to work! It is people like her that cause long lines on the freeway!

Then the funniest thing happened. She came out of her car and showed me how she was bumped from behind a few days ago and how she did not even fix anything because she thought nothing of it. And this was when I began to mouth off at her. Jesus would not be proud of me and the devil was ready to embrace me and call me a good son. I asked her for her contact information and took pictures of the damage on my bumper. She begged me not to file a claim through her insurance; she would settle it with me privately. I said no problem and I told her to pay for everything, including a new bumper. I told her that my car was like my baby, and nobody messes with my baby!

I flipped her off and spat on her car. Oh, and did I mention that I kicked her tires? Well, I did. And some foreign languages began to surge out of my mouth that I thought I was speaking in tongues. I was cussing like the crazy old Mrs. Mombaza who lives two blocks from my house. She'd be proud of me. And here were my last words:

"Die! Die! Die! I hope you and your clan and your sister in the ICU and your husband and any child or children that you have and may have will die a horrible death. You will all seize to exist! You and your entire race on heaven and on earth will die, die, die! And I hope your car will explode and your mom--" I can't remember anything beyond this point. My wife had taken over the wheels and she was rubbing my back and singing me a sweet lullaby to calm me down. And I have to say, I feel the spirit again and I was all happy and taking deep breaths. I was ready to forgive. I even smiled.

I did not bother to look at the damage again and decided to look at it in the morning. My wife told me that all was well. The damage was no damage at all. No dent, no paint peeled. Only a minute, minute scratch. No one would notice. I believed her and went to bed.

Come this morning, I woke up with a smile. Had my breakfast and got ready to work. When I was in my garage, the first thing I checked was my car bumper. I squinted and saw nothing. There was a moment when I thought I had dreamed the entire ordeal. It was as if nothing had happened. Then, a sliver of light gave way to the small scratch that was there, and my heart fell like Satan and his armies eons ago.

And this was when I opened my mouth and screamed "Die! Die! Die!" and a host of other-worldly verbal expressions that would give the devil tears of pride and joy came out of my mouth like diarrhea. Secretly in my heart today, I prayed hard that the lady in the Lancer would die with her entire family and her clan and her race. I love a good revenge.

And if you think I am joking, bring it on! No one messes with my car!

What's in a Query?

2009-11-05T11:41:00.006-07:00

Writers from all over the world, listen up! Now that you've finished your first novel and have popped your champaignes and danced around your bedroom celebrating the premature achievement of your novel's completion, it's time to sit back down and face reality. I know it really feels good to know that you've finally dotted your last period and can call yourself an author, but believe me, your journey as a writer has just begun. The grueling process of editing is awaiting you at the threshold of success (or failure, whichever applies).

My editing process took 3 years. Yup, you heard me. THREE YEARS! My first revision added 20,000 words to my manuscript, increasing my word count from a meager 70,000 to 90,000. My second revision slashed 10,000 words from my manuscript, and my third revision got it down to 75,000. And that was when I felt good. Then there was the polishing process in which I had to read my manuscript so many times till I was basically skipping pages near the end. I dotted the I's and crossed the T's, corrected grammatical errors, and made sure my characters were coherent. I mean, there was a time when one of my main characters suddenly had a different name halfway through the novel. And there was another time when a dead character actually came to life without my knowing in one chapter and died again for the rest of the novel. Creepy? Well, it happens.

And once the editing process is done, it's time to query. Writing the query letter is an art by itself. Within one page, you must hook your reader and sell your manuscript. It's not about your story, it's about how to tell people about your story. In other words, don't worry about whether or not your story is good enough. Instead, worry about how you relay your story within one page to an agent. So here's the basic, fail-proof formula to writing a stellar query:

Address your agent by first or last name, and not Sir or Ma'am.
Go straight to your hook, which is a summary of your book in not more than 4 small paragraphs. If you can fit everything in 2 paragraphs, you'll make your agent happier. Don't worry about giving out the ending or minute details. Just a rough frame of what your book is about. That's all. Simple, right? Not really. Most writers have the tendency to go on and on about their book, which is a direct dive to Failureville. Basically, introduce your characters, their conflicts, and what they need to do to resolve it. That's it.
State your word count and genre. Well, this is pretty flexible. Some writers don't even have to define the genre of their book. Not necessary. This is because in today's publishing industry, the agents really don't care what genre you say your book is. Ultimately, the publishers decide. So you may think your book is sci-fi, but in the end, it is published as horror. This is because it is really hard to define a book's genre nowadays. About word count, just make sure you don't give your agent a heart attack by giving your first novel a 90,000 or 120,000 word count. That will guarantee a form rejection. Just know that the requirement word count of a novel is around 75,000 to 80,000, no more, no less. And if your novel, no matter how stellar you think it is, is over that limit, it's time to trim the fat from the bacon. Go back to your editing process and do what you have to do.
Tell the agent a little about yourself. Don't overdo this. Mention your writing achievements if you have any. And completing your English 101 paper is not one of them. And if you don't have any, just tell the agent which school you graduated from, what you do and so on. Make it three sentences or a short paragraph.
End your query with a thank you and mention that it is part of a multiple submission. This will cause the agent to act faster on your query if it is good because there is competition.

So that's it. And just to illustrate, I will include my initial query for my debut novel below. I welcome suggestions, criticism, and hate mail. So here goes:

Dear Adam:

Housekeeper, Eleanor Rose, is witty, gentle, hardworking, and a remarkable cook. To the people of Amalga, she’s a petite old lady who wouldn’t even hurt a fly. And to the Cunninghams, she’s the perfect housekeeper—at least until they found her holding a bloody knife next to the dead body of Katherine Cunningham, her employer’s 12-year-old daughter.

When Eleanor is arrested, Vincent Lee, a young journalist, is assigned to cover her story. His research leads to a startling discovery: This is not the first time Eleanor is arrested for the death of a child. In fact, Eleanor was found guilty for the murder of her only son thirty-nine years ago. He was twelve when he died.

Through his interviews with Eleanor within the confines of the penitentiary’s visiting hall, Vincent finds the truth hard to digest. Nothing is what it seems. Behind Eleanor’s actions is a painful secret that, if revealed, would challenge the moral obligation of every mother to her child. It would give love a new meaning.

And now Vincent will have to make one important decision: to run the story and defy what he believes is right, or to sacrifice his career and protect the one thing that will also give him a second chance in life.

The Housekeeper's Son, a 75,000 word work of literary fiction, explores the power and vulnerability of a mother's love for her child. I am a corporate writer in the nutraceutical industry and a graduate of Utah State University where I received my Master of Arts in Communication. This query is part of a multiple submission.

I look forward to hearing from you. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Christopher Loke

The Gay Divorcee

2009-10-29T11:13:00.005-06:00

Okay, get this: I was surfing the channels on my TV via my Comcast remote control, scrolling up and down the TV guide for a nice show to watch while gobbling down my dinner like a hungry lunatic, when I stumbled upon a movie named The Gay Divorcee. And immediately I thought to myself, "Gay Porn? Cannot be!" I have to admit, that title was a little too direct to misinterpret, right? A married man who becomes gay and divorces his wife, hence The Gay Divorcee.

But I was not so easily convinced since I do not subscribe to any form of visual indecency. So I clicked the Information button and see what it was all about. And lo and behold, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were in the movie. A 1934 flick as well. The first thing that came to my mind was--and don't think me thick for this natural response--"They already had porn way back then already?"

Well, of course, that thought came and gone within seconds. I wasn't that stupid. I mean, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in a steamy scene? Come on, I know the golden age of musicals like the back of my hand, and they barely kissed during that time, at least not until Marilyn Monroe came along with her pouty smile and her sleepy eyes and whispy voice. And not to mention her famous oops-the-vent's-blowing-my-skirt-up-up-and-away scene in The Seven Year Itch.

Anyway, forget about Marilyn and let's get back to Fred and Ginger. It's all about etymology. I mean, the word gay used to mean happy. So, in essence, The Gay Divorcee should be about a divorced man who is happy. Agree? But fast forward to the 21st century, gay means a lot more than happy. So if Hollywood were to whip out a movie with a title such as The Gay Divorcee, unless it means a gay man skipping around town whistling happy showtunes, that movie's not going to fly anywhere. Meaning, blockbuster turkey of the year! Because titles and meanings are important.

Let me illustrate. Imagine Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets as Harry Potts and the Chamber Pots of Secrets (and yes, this title does exist, but did not do too well in the market, go figure). How do you think it would sell? Or imagine The Reader as The Illiterate? It won't sell either. Or how about The Notebook as The Forgetful Lovers? Get my drift here?

In conclusion, The Gay Divorcee wouldn't be The Gay Divorcee today, but Happy Feet. Oh wait, that title's been taken. Damn the penguins! But in anyway, The Gay Divorcee would be called by any other name BUT The Gay Divorcee.

So, here's my challenge. If you've seen the movie, let me know what you think The Gay Divorcee should be named today. Remember, titles are important. They can make or break your movie, book, or child. (I know of a woman whose name is Gamble Lynn Money. Needless to say, she's doing time now at the top of the mountain--prison, for those not from Utah County--for poisoning her parents.

Back to the topic at hand: give me your ideas, suggestions. What would The Gay Divorcee be called today should it be a modern day movie? I trust that you will give it a blockbuster name.

And now, I rest my case.

I've Never Heard of It, Thus It Does Not Exist

2009-09-18T14:20:00.002-06:00

A funny thing happened in one of those long meetings I have to attend every week. This time, they were discussing one of those copies I'd written for a conference. It was something I'd been working on for a long time--a couple of weeks to be exact--and I was pretty excited to present it to the board. The board, meaning the marketing heads, communication tails, and our notorious ring leader, the VP. Now, having a VP in a meeting is already a dreadful thing (I understand), but having OUR VP is a whole different story. A bit of history: this guy is . . . well, you'll find out at the end of this entry.

And so my story continues . . . So there I was, sitting in my chair at the end of the oblong conference table opposite the VP, trying to remain seated and contain myself (I have the tendency to bounce around in my seat when meetings go too long; it's called slight autism and mental retardation) while everyone pretended to peruse the copy with ease. I know these people; they had no idea what I was writing about. But for the sake of securing their day jobs, they had to nod and make smart comments after every line). But that was okay. I didn't mind. After all, a writer must face all kinds of criticism, good and bad.

And then it was the VP's turn to comment on a certain paragraph on the copy. He paused, made a face, paused longer, pursed his lips, stared at the ceiling for a while, and then back at the copy. "Are you a writer?" he asked.

My initial response would be: "Duh, haven't I written for your company for years already? Wasn't I hired as a 'writer'????" Instead, I said, "Yes."

"Then what is this word doing on this line?"

"Which word?"

At this point, all eyes were on the VP and me, moving from side to side like watching a Wimbledon match. "Beneficial. This word does not exist, does it?" my VP said.

Straightaway, my manager interrupted. "Yes it does. Beneficial is a word, and it is appropriately used in that paragraph."

The VP shook his head and frowned. "I've never heard of it. It does not exist. Use another word. Replace it with another word. I can't believe you make up your own word here."

At this, I was speechless. My throat just started to tickle. I had to laugh, but I realized I was in an austere meeting with our VP and must maintain some kind of corporate decorum, which I did with difficulty. It was a challenge. I looked around and noticed that I was the only one with a smirk on my face. Everyone else was as serious as prisoners on death row. So I quickly cleared my throat and said, "Yes, I'll change it to a word that exists."

"Good. Meeting adjourn. Everything else looks good. Gotta tighten the copy a bit next time."

"Aye, aye, sir!" I made my silly salute and winked. But that was, of course, after he left the room.

All I'm saying is, go figure.

What Should I Be Doing on Memorial Weekend?

2009-05-21T11:13:00.003-06:00

Finally! I can now call myself an author. I've finished writing a book--it took me a honking four years to get this far--and it feels great! No, it feels wonderful! I printed my manuscript and placed it in a safe place so that I can mull over other things before returning to it later. Well, 2 weeks have passed and I have not yet done anything with it. Arrgh, it's so frustrating because I am a natural procastinator. My wife gives me a scouring look every time I mention anything about my career as a full-time writer--not because she does not believe in me, but because she thinks I should just do it instead of talking about it. (She's tired of being just a housewife; she wants fame and fortune, and she wants it PRONTO! Or so I think.)

So this is my plan. This weekend, I'm going to re-read my manuscript from first to last page just to make sure there isn't any typos or embarrassing errors. I'm determined to be committed to my manuscript. And this weekend is going to be the time I get it done once and for all.

Come next week, I shall be saying hello to agents all over the country. And by October, I'll have a deal. By the end of this year, my manuscript will be sold. Sounds like a plan? Yeah, I think so too.

And if you'll excuse me, I've got some moving-on to do.

Serenity

2009-05-18T17:53:00.003-06:00

The Tempest

2009-05-18T17:44:00.002-06:00

Sinking into Reality

2009-04-23T18:08:00.002-06:00

Finally, I'm one chapter away from completing the final revision of my manuscript. I should feel relieved, right? But no. Instead, I feel nervous about the whole thing, which is weird. So I've been thinking, why am I feeling this way? A normal person should be jumping up and down for finishing something that has taken too long to complete. I should be shouting at the top of my lungs, shouting for joy, proclaiming to the world that I am finally done! But then I realized why I'm feeling on the edge. It's really hard to describe, but anecdotally, here's a story that explains my feelings more clearly:

Imagine an artist working on his masterpiece. Year after year he labors on the piece of art, mulling over it, taking his time to make it something perfect. At the same time, he anticipates for the day he would reveal it to the world and receive tons of accolades for it. And when the time finally comes for him to reveal it, all of a sudden, he feels vulnerable, especially the moment before he lifts the veil from his masterpiece in front of thousands of people. He feels nervous, now more conscious than ever about his skills, his creativity. What would people think? Will they hate it? Love it? Or not care? That moment, that miniscule second before the veil drops to expose his masterpiece is the hardest to swallow.

And that is what I am going through. This will be the moment where my career as a writer would either take flight or fall straight to the slosh pile of somebody else's garbage can. So I'm crossing my fingers and focusing on just the best. Peace out!

So Close!

2009-03-02T08:16:00.004-07:00

Finally, I'm on Chapter 25 in my revision process. It's getting close, considering my novel only has 35 chapters. At first, I was thinking of adding a few more chapters here and there, but on second thought, I gave up that ambition --I'm already at 79,500 words and I am not planning to go over 80,000. As I get closer to the end, I am excited--scratch that, I'm actually estatic!--to be reaching my dream.

The revision process is an interesting process, really. It helps me look deeper inside as a writer and find that passion, mold it and remold it, and use it over and over again to create better sentences, better words, and a richer, more meaningful story. Rewriting is rediscovering.

I have become my worst critic. Sometimes I hate my own words, and sometimes I think I am good. It's a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde syndrome, which can be freakin' crazy if you ask me. But amid those sleepless nights when the struggle for words and sentences seem to dominate my entire existence, I find hope in one thing: Money. Yes, that's right! I write so that I may feed my babies. I follow the footsteps of Charles Dickens, really. Money is ultimately my motivation.

I remember reading a quote from a famous writer. She said--and I paraphrase--if she had her choice, she would rather win a lottery and catch up with her reading instead of writing. And I thought that was very practical.

I don't believe writers who keep saying they write for themselves. Well, that's good and dandy as long as they have no desire to publish. If they do, they need to face the fact that they are, indeed, writing for others. I write for the money, have always been, and I am proud of it!

Introducing Authonomy

2009-02-04T20:04:00.002-07:00

Okay, I hope I can contain myself while writing this. I've discovered a wonderful site for writers, readers, and people who have the same interest in good books and so on. It's called Authonomy, a wonderful site created by editors from Harper Collins to help unpublished writers get spotted and published.

As a writer, you'll be able to post your entire manuscript for everyone to read and comment on. And if everyone loves your work and recommends it enough, it'll land on the editor's desk of the site. It's a lot to explain, but only a few minutes for you to find out. Already three new authors have been signed to Harper Collins. This is a great opportunity for all of us, new writers, to get our works out there.

One great thing about Authonomy that I like other than the chance to post my work, is to be able to read the works of other writers and see what other people are writing. I am, so far, loving Authonomy. To find out more about Authonomy, log on to Authonomy.com and register. Read all the FAQs and get to know the purpose and the benefits of the site. Then use it.

So, don't wait, go discover!

Life is All About Spontaneity!

2009-01-26T18:34:00.001-07:00

This happened in Liverpool. If only we can do something like that in Utah!

Chinese New Year Greeting!

2009-01-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

How to Write Consistent Characters

2009-01-16T16:33:00.002-07:00

Have you ever experienced writing a novel with colorful characters, and after the twentieth chapter, completely went off tangent on them? If you were me, by the tenth chapter, my characters would all be slightly inconsistent. For example, one of my characters started of with blue eyes and fair skin, and ended up with brown eyes and tanned skin with a foreign accent to boot--not even I knew how that came about. But then I realized the source to the problem.

With my busy schedule and my day job, I only wrote when I could. And sometimes, it would be days in between writing. Although my plot was consistent, my characters surely were not! They were here and there, spilled all over my manuscript like disobedient ink. They could be so random sometimes I wasn't able to catch up. Like a confused parent, I would often call my characters by different names or give them different idiosyncrasies. Which was a terrible, horrible, vile thing to do as a writer. So I decided to stop and come up with a solution to all this before continuing.

Sure, I could have pages of notes regarding each of the characters, but I knew myself too well. I would never in a hundred years refer back to those thick pads of notes I wrote. Neither would I remember to look at them. I tried sticking sticky notes all over my work station, and by the end of the week, I was tired of looking up and down to search for names and identities. So here is what I came up with. A picture board.

First, I am a visual person, and everything I write is completely drawn out like a movie. My characters have faces, and I like to pin them up for reference. I liken my characters to people I know--friends, family members, enemies, politicians, celebrities and so on. Then I'd search for these people in magazines and photo albums, cut their faces out and stick them on a picture board. Under each of the pictures, I write their names and certain particulars, such as dates of birth and things I want to remember about them. I don't make the list too long, just enough to trigger my imagination and memory. And that's it. So easy.

Every time I write about a certain character, I look at the picture board and imagine his face and his smile and everything else that comes with an expression. It's easier and more consistent. A right dimple will remain right and not roam into the left. The more I look at the faces, the more I know them, as if I am face to face with them. This way, characters will indeed be more consistent and real. It's almost like describing a friend.

Let me know different ways you conceptualize and frame your characters, and if my method works for you. Happy writing!

Blah, Blah, Blah!

2009-01-10T15:21:00.002-07:00

After writing and revising my novel every day since last week, I am finally able to say I am not afraid to write anymore, haha! You ask, why was I even afraid to write? A writer who has a fear of writing? Well, it's true. Before my strict writing routine, I was a professional procrastinator. This habit of mine started way back in my college years, like many eons ago.

I used to not do any of my reading or homework until the day before. I sometimes even skipped exams. How stupid, right? Yeah, exactly. I was stupid, no other better words to describe me then. But all those procrastination and waiting and halting were just part of my fear of confronting the fact that I might not be able to write as well, or even write at all. Every time I had an idea, I just lay there in my lazy bed and imagined the words. I would have chapters written in my head, and they were good. But the ultimate problem was, they were ONLY written in my head. So, after lingering, and more lingering, I finally got sick of my attitude and decided to make a change.

This year, I have been writing every day now, and it felt good. My wife would wake me up from my nap or interrupt me from my computer "work" to remind me of my commitment to the family. Yes, she makes it a big deal if I do not write. She is planning to bank on my selling my first manuscript this year. By summer, she said. Which is good, because if not because of her, I would not have overcome my fear of writing. I used to think I was too tired to write, and would put the whole task off until the weekends, and come weekends, I played more than I did anything else. But interestingly, after writing for so many days now, I am not able to stop. It's like an addiction of the strangest kind. I am closer to my characters and do look forward to seeing them everyday. Now I'm really writing and it feels good.

My revision of my novel is coming along pretty smoothly, I have to say. I am excited to complete the ever-so-daunting final revision and rewriting process. My novel looks good and I am confident that finding an agent for it is not difficult. (Pat on my back!)

Recently, I've just finished reading "The Reader," and am now on a new book, "The Emperor's Children." I just love reading and can't stop. Perhaps that is my inspiration. But my muse is definitely my wife, ha! It's true, love can make you do things you never think is possible.

And to my friends who are doing very well in their writing and pursuit of a career in writing, I offer you all my support. A shout out to Amber Smith! Way to go, girl. I've always said you'll make it first, and am I not always right?

A New Year's Resolution

2008-12-26T09:59:00.002-07:00

Okay, I'm not too much of a New Year's resolution type of guy, but deep inside, I feel it's about time I make some solid goals. First of all, I've been working on my debut novel for years, and I think it's about high time I finish it and get it out. I don't want to be one of those so-called writers who dabble on too many works and finish none. I am too prideful to fall into that category.

So this year, I am going to set goals for next year. By the end of 2009, I will have achieved these things:

Finished the long and tedious process of editing my novel.
Found and secured myself a literary agent.
Sold my first book.
Acquired film and international rights to my book.

I know those are pretty big goals, but if I don't set them, nothing will be accomplished. You are who you want to be. So in 2009, I want to be successful. As of right now, I play more than I write, which is a sad, sad thing. But I promise to improve and do better.

For all you writers, hang in there and keep writing. There is hope yet. 2009 will see the publishing industry rebounce. I have already purchased too many books this Christmas, and I am glad I did that. The bookstores were packed with people like street markets, as if free books were being given away. And that is a good sign.

So all you new writers, persevere and complete your novels, take a year to edit your work, and take another to re-write. And before you know it, your book will be ready to publish. Remember, patience is a virtue.

May your New Year be bookmarked as one of the finest pages ever written!

Funniest Thing on Earth!

2008-11-23T01:14:00.000-07:00

Can you stop laughing after watching this?

Prop 8: Keith Olbermann Sums It Up!

2008-11-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

The Obama/McCain Dance Off

2008-10-31T17:43:00.003-06:00

I laughed my arse off when I first saw this video. If Obama and McCain were to be dancers instead of politicians, they would dance exactly the same way portrayed in this video--I can see that happening actually. Scary! Anyway, watch the video below and tell me if it does not cause you to giggle a bit. I did more than that--I fell on the floor, face down, and laughed so hard I thought I'd die any minute.

Without much ado, I present you a tickling video of Obama and McCain . . . dancing:

Decision 2008

2008-10-31T15:25:00.003-06:00

All right, people! When it comes to the national election, I am thrilled. I have been following the political scene since last year, and I have my personal pick on who should be president. But that's besides the point. I happen to come across a comprehensive and intelligent article on Gather.com (and if you are not yet a member, join now, you'll never regret it) and found it quite enlightening and well thought of. I am attaching the link to this post. This is a MUST-READ!

Here it is:
The Case for Obama

Consumers Beware

2008-10-31T11:57:00.003-06:00

Okay, this is freaking me out. I was shopping at Wal-Mart just the other day, minding my business, vulturing the taco aisle for some fresh soft tacos. And guess what I saw? A bag of green tacos! And upon a closer look, the thing that made them green was the mold, hairy, fuzzy, slimy mold. And the bag was infected tacos was sitting right there on the shelf, all pretty and ready to buy. So, I shuddered and quickly notified the sales attendant. But none spoke English, so I had to pull them over to the aisle to look at the green mold. Once the attendant saw it, he quickly pulled it off the shelf and walked away. Of course, he did it with a smile and a nod, but ever so casually as if that green thing was a common Wal-Mart scene. Yike, I thought. Since then, I never shopped at Wal-Mart for groceries anymore.

And here's one reason why:

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

The Making of a President

2008-10-30T12:13:00.005-06:00

"I'm reminded every single day that I'm not a perfect man. I will not be a perfect president. But I can promise you this: I will always tell you what I think and where I stand. I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you when we disagree. But most importantly, I will open the doors of government and ask you to be involved in your own democracy again."

~Barack Obama

Book Crossing!

2008-10-02T23:32:00.002-06:00

There I was, running back from the huge garbage dump behind my apartment complex when I stumbled upon this book lying on the pavement--more like in the middle of the road! It was Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, the novel I had wanted to read when it first came out. On the cover was a sticker that says, "Free Book, Read Me!" A free book--and a hard cover at it too? No way, I thought, but I picked it up anyway and brought it home.

Came to find out, on the front cover was another label that gave instructions to how this free thingy works. It's a program called Book Crossing, a traveling library of sorts that encourages people to leave their books behind for others to pick up. From one hand to another, books get passed and read for free. It's a great thing and anyone from anywhere in the world should participate. It's a beautiful thing.

Here's the link: www.BookCrossing.com

From there you can track who has read the book before you and register books you want to leave for others to read. It's a brilliant idea.

Enjoy, and discover the world through giving. Literacy is the bomb!

The Housekeeper's Son: An Excerpt

2008-08-23T00:48:00.011-06:00

Here's an excerpt from the novel that I am currently working on. Please send me your comments. Hope you like it:

The first time Eleanor saw Katherine was three weeks ago at the door of number one-hundred-and-five, and since then, no words were exchanged between the two. Eleanor was only briefly introduced to the Cunningham children—Edmund and Katherine—and straight after, directed to the various chores of the house. The children were courteous in their greetings and showed very little affection toward each other—Edmund being the only male figure present in the house tended to convey his intentions through a series of pantomimes, actions that were meant to stereotype rich, idyllic gentlemen a century ago who seemed to care very much about their reputation upon the initial meeting with their acquaintances—long, broad steps, polite nods and a continuous exhibition of excessive gallantry. Katherine, on the other hand, remained unsociable and detached, a girl who said very little and moved like a floating dandelion in the wind, swift, but ever so fragile and easily diverted. Her attention span could very well be as short as the life of a gnat, abbreviated and unpredictable.

At the dining table, the children gulped down their breakfast like starving orphans, making minimum eye contact with each other, slices of toast crumbled between their teeth, crumbs falling onto their plates. Katherine, after only three bites of her toast—Eleanor counted—placed it back on her plate and pushed it away from her, a princess protesting her meal. Eleanor watched the children’s idiosyncrasies and hoped to familiarize herself a little better with her new environment. At first, she had wanted to start an insubstantial conversation with them, hoping to somehow connect with them a little more, but upon a moment of consideration, thought otherwise and said nothing; she only managed to say hello as they hurried out like chicks that pattered undecidedly toward frequent places.

The house, a structure of intricate construction—wooden floors, steep, spiraling staircases, narrow hallways, dark corners, and strategically positioned furniture and mirrors—was saturated with an indiscernible feeling of death and decay. Its frame might still be standing, but within the layers of wood and plaster, Eleanor sensed an aging soul, an architecture that had lived passed its years.

Once the children had left, there was an immediate need to clean, scrub, sweep, mop, and among other things, cook. And since Eleanor did insist on preparing the meals for the family, despite her employer’s objection, the kitchen became her common place.

After the dishes, there was always the countertop. Everything had to look and feel pristine. In the following days, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served with much pride and care. Every single detail of her culinary expertise was apparent in her dishes. The tables were set, structured and on time for the scheduled meals—forks on the left, knives and spoons on the right, soup bowls on saucers, glasses on coasters, water accompanied juices, and napkins folded, pressed, pinched, and fanned like tails of peacocks. Sliced chicken breast with a gloss of orange liqueur; asparagus braised with a glaze of butter and garlic; onion tarts with dashes of cayenne; custards and puddings baked until soft, golden crusts formed on the top; buttermilk crepes stacked, layered, and sliced down the middle like a cake; and days and days of twirled orange peels and honey poached pears. The appetite in the house had slowly risen to a healthy peak. Even Katherine, who would only take no more than three bites of everything she ate, was beginning to chew a little longer and eat a little more. Four bites, five bites, six bites, seven bites, and when she reached her eighth, Eleanor decided she did not need to keep count anymore. Eight was sufficient to prove an improved gastronomy.

Surprisingly, Elizabeth in her tiny frame was going for seconds, a gesture that might very well signify her approval of Eleanor’s culinary savvy. So far, Elizabeth seemed quite pleased with Eleanor’s performance although no one could really tell for sure—Elizabeth kept mostly to herself, reticent and hesitant to speak any more than she needed to. Her instructions were concise and blunt, no adjectives, no filler words, no conjunctions, and no commas. Every sentence was as direct as the high noon sun. But all Eleanor chose to see was the way Elizabeth maneuver her food in her mouth, moving it up and down, savoring it like a wine connoisseur who had discovered heaven in her mouth, who had lived and died in one single draught.

At the end of the day, Eleanor would stand, leaning against the wooden kitchen table, and admire the works of her hands, small things that could create a universe if she so wished.

The Time is Nigh

2008-08-20T16:49:00.005-06:00

Yup, that's right! I am in my final stage of revising my manuscript, and I'm sky-flying excited. But before I go any further, I just want to direct everyone to this blog I've recently spotted. It's by a literary agent based in San Francisco, and from the looks of it, he's pretty nice. Now, that does not mean he's going to accept your manuscript--you still have to be a stellar writer (like me, ha, ha!)--but he's nice enough to give you tips and helpful hints on how to better your work. Better still, how to market your manuscript to an agent (like him).

So, if you're a writer with something ready to sell, go to his blog and start reading. Believe you me, I have taken up the fancy of reading literary agents' blogs--and you should be seeing a lot of these links featured on my blog as time passes--and I'm learning everyday. I think they are rather amusing, entertaining, and utterly useful in helping me pave my way to stardom (yeah, I write for money, no arguments there).

Oh, the link to the agent's blog is on the right column of my blog site. Have fun and may the most committed writer prevail!

And before I forget, the name of the agent is Nathan Bransford! Check him out now.

The Writer's Block

2008-08-06T10:56:00.005-06:00

Recently, I find myself enjoying my life a little to much. Life is great, and I can't complain. But as a writer, whenever things get a little too blissful and you get too happy, interestingly, you lose all kinds of dramatic juice that had once been the fuel that sparked inspiration and story ideas.

Nowadays, with so much comfort and love around, it is actually difficult for me to come up with conflicts and dramatic interludes in my writing. I find it difficult to invent or imagine an argument, a fight, or an evil plot for my antagonist as I sit in front of my computer, my mind a complete vacuum when it comes to certain creative imaginations. The only vocabularies I can think of are happy, glad, happy, glad, orange, good and other not-so-sad words. Sometimes I think a writer would almost have to be near suicidal to even be deemed great.

I have to admit, there were times when I was so tempted to run myself into a wall, knock my head, get a concussion, bleed everywhere, leap over my son's twin-size bed, trip and fall--yet another time--on my head, get another concussion, shout hallelujah, run out of the door naked, get spotted by my conservative neighbors, let them call 911 because there is a mad dog, naked with blood flowing freely from his temples, running amok in the courtyard, get arrested so that my wife has to bail me out (but she would not have the money, thus she would have to borrow and answer humiliating questions from her lenders, who will most likely be her sisters and other not-so-distant relatives), let the whole world know I am crazy, create some controversy, and when all is said and done, return to my writing station, and start savoring the creative juice I've created by sheer abnormality.

I think most famous writers have done it, made themselves inaccessible to the world, gone crazy, sparked some headlines, and then gone back to producing some of their greatest works, although there were casualties in this kind of business, which was mainly due to absolute bad luck, nothing more.

Take Virginia Woolf for example. I'm sure she wasn't really going to drown herself, but she drowned anyway, probably because she was too naive to think the water as deep and dangerous. Or maybe she just didn't know how to swim. And what about Hemingway? Surely, he knew his gun was loaded. But as we all know, too much writing can cause a slight slip of memory sometimes. Emily Dickinson didn't mind being an old maid, maybe because she thought someday her prince would come, but unfortunately, he never made it, never arrived, and when he finally did, he was a tad too late. Why does everything have to end in tragedy? But good writing almost always requires sacrifice, and in most cases, it is the sacrifice of happiness that the god of creative writing demands.

So in my case, I am going to start thinking of depressing thoughts, so that I might once again write beautiful prose. And thus, my journey to the dark side commences.

And oh, everything I said only applies to creative writers--I think. Don't mind me if you are a technical writer, a manual writer, or a research writer. You probably won't need to worry about squeezing out any creative juice. Not to be rude, but as far as my experience goes, those kind of writing requires none.

~finis~

Excerpt from my Thesis

2008-07-17T22:52:00.002-06:00

I graduated with an M.A. in Communication in 2005. Here's an excerpt from Chapter Two of my thesis:

From the outside, the two-room, single-story house in Sunset, Utah, looks just like any ordinary American house belonging to a working-class family. The outdoor vinyl siding tinted a worn-out beige. The roof is the familiar dark amber color, with aluminum trim. The house has a porch, a 10-by-10-foot yard, and a 1999 black Honda Civic parked right along the street. But at a closer look, the house is surrounded by a chain link fence, which is extremely unusual for the neighborhood. However, the trait that singles out this particular house is not what’s outside, but what’s inside.

The interior of Tou Lee Yang’s modest home is simple – even Spartan. The living room has a television set, a small couch, a coffee table and a shelf. The walls are bare except for three family portraits in plastic frames. Behind a partition is the kitchen equipped with just the basics: an oven, a cupboard, a small dining table, a stove and a fridge. The setting could be the kitchen of a Third World Asian country. Newspapers are used as liner for the dish rack, while the tiled floor spots pieces of crumbs from yesterday’s dinner. The corners are dark with grease and the walls spotted brown from heavy cooking.

The back yard has a few coops, and chickens run freely within fenced areas. There are no fruit trees or vegetable gardens, just bushes and weeds. The garage has been renovated into a bedroom where Yang’s two younger sons sleep. The daughter has her own room and Yang and his wife occupy the master bedroom. All in all, the interior lacks décor except for a fish tank. And even that comes with just the basics: a few goldfish, some dirt-colored gravel and a filter. The house suggests poverty, but the environment is common among the Hmong. This is how they like it, and what their culture dictates: simplicity.

My Third and Last Book Cover

2008-07-15T23:14:00.004-06:00

All right, this is the final choice for my book cover. It has a sense of mystery, and yet, it is still appropriately tied to my story. I really think the designer is a genius. Well, tough choices to make, but someone will have to make them. And I am glad it's not me.

Second Book Cover

2008-07-14T22:55:00.004-06:00

This is the editors' second choice for the book cover. What do you think? They usually make about three to choose. Well, frankly, I like all of them. We'll have to see what gets chosen in the end.

Revised Book Cover

2008-07-14T20:02:00.002-06:00

Here's the revised book cover for my novel. The designers were debating over the font colors, but I guess this is what they decided. I am also told that there will be a few more preliminary cover designs for my book, which I will post on this blog as soon as I have it.

The Creative Process

2008-07-14T14:54:00.004-06:00

Late last night, after hanging out with my in-laws and a few of my friends, I was completely drained and exhausted, ready to hit the sack. Then my two-and-a-half-year-old son started to act up and demand that I read him a book. In time, one book turned to ten and more. So after flipping through pages after pages of colorful cartoons of dinosaurs and talking animals, I finally gave up and told Hayden to go to bed. Of course, this did not get settled without a commotion--picture this: I said, "Hayden, it's time to go to bed. It's almost midnight."

"No, Daddy," he countered.

"Well, it's late and Daddy is tired and you need to sleep too."

"No, I want read."

"No more reading." At this time, my eyes were struggling to open and my son was starting to shove books at my face. Annoyed, I snapped them close, slammed them into the toy box and said, "GO TO BED!" As you can now imagine, steam was shooting out from my ears.
But Hayden, in his sweet little inocent-as-an-imp face, looked at me and basically smiled, undeterred. "Daddy, I want read." Needless to say, I had to lift him up and dump him into his own bed, tucking him tightly under his sheets, and with a finger directed at him, I said, "Good night, no more negotiations, whining, and asking for more reading. We are done for the night. I love you."

I straightaway went to bed like I had not slept for ages. When I woke up, it was only barely three, my wife was snoring next to me and the house was as quiet as a sleeping baby. But I could not sleep. Something was stomping in my mind, trying to get out. Without wasting time, I went to my desk, pulled out a notebook and started to write down everything that was swimming upstairs, and when I was done, it was already four and my eyes were starting to droop again. When I finally snugged back into bed, cuddled warmly beside my wife, I realized that I had rewritten an entire chapter of my book in the dark.

The creative process is such that no one can comprehend or predict. Sometimes it comes when you anticipate it, however, at other times, it only shows up when least expected, when you are at the brink of fatigue and complete shut down. But no matter when it decides to show up, you'll have to take advantage of it, even if you have to write in the dark and utterly disfunctional. The result is highly rewarding.

My Book's New Cover and Tag Line

2008-07-14T00:32:00.009-06:00

All right, here it is--my novel's new cover, though it is only tentative at the time being. At this moment, I am loving it. According to my knowledge, it will be printed on silver velum, so it's going to stand out. Well, it's all still a year away--publication and the whole nine yards--and I have lots to do. Currently, I am still revising, rewriting, and revamping the entire manuscript, polishing it until it shines and shines some more. For those who have no idea what my novel is about, here's the tag that got the editors hooked:

"When 72-year-old Eleanor Rose is convicted for murdering her employer's little daughter, journalist Vincent Lee discovers nothing is what it seems, unveiling a painful secret that would challenge the moral obligation and love of every mother, including his own."

That's all I can say about my novel at the moment. The rest is still hush, hush.

A Perfect Beginning

2008-07-11T23:56:00.004-06:00

For the longest time, I have been digging deep into my mind, trying to think of a reason for me to blog or divulge something about myself that would entice people to read. Well, needless to say, I never found anything quite so interesting about me that would actually attract the hungry mass out there in the electronic world. However, after discussing my dilemma with my friends, I have finally decided to start blogging about my little journey toward the publication of my debut novel. Let's put it this way--this blog is really dedicated to promoting myself and my book. And I hope by doing so, I may be able to motivate new writers pursue their dreams. Having said that, welcome and happy reading!