The Miracle of Forgiveness

The act of forgiveness, believe it or not, is a two-way process--in order to obtain complete forgiveness, we must first do the most difficult of all things: forgive ourselves. While many books have been written on this subject, they all spell out the same conclusion--forgiveness can open doors to a whole new universe of prospects and wonders. It opens our eyes to see the things that we've never seen before, though they may have always been there in front of us.

But forgiveness is so much more than just an act; it's about closure and giving ourselves the permission and freedom to move forward.

In Chris Bohjalian's Midwives, the protagonist faces her past and the guilt that it brings everyday. The consequences of her decision to perform a cesarean section on a woman whom she thought was dead in order to deliver the baby haunt her like a plague. And while she fights for her innocence, she must free herself from the guilt that she harbors for years. Ultimately, she must forgive herself before anyone can.

This journey of forgiveness, as simple as it sounds, is anything but simple. It is a long and tedious process, on which we must inevitably embark at least once in our lives. It is salvation in the most subtle manner. Imagine being burdened by a bad decision that you wish never existed; it can potentially pull us down to a very dark place. We may smile and attempt to live a normal life, but that black seed in us will fester. It will eventually be the end of us and our happiness, the long pursuit of all men.

Traveling to that dark place in our lives and confronting our guilt so that we may forgive ourselves and ultimately move forward becomes the main underlying subject for Kim Edward's The Memory Keeper's Daughter. When a doctor gives up his newborn daughter because of Down Syndrome, lying to his wife that the baby was stillborn, his life suddenly changes for the worse. That dark moment in his life that he is trying so hard to hide eventually surfaces, and it is now much larger than anything he is prepared to face. Again, Edwards show that while it is easy for people to forgive each other, it is never the same when it comes to forgiving ourselves. We may have to go through the fires of hell and back, and even that may not always be sufficient.

In The Housekeeper's Son, Eleanor Rose, my protagonist, goes through life like a ghost, not really existing, but merely there. A shadow of her past looms above her at all times--one decision she made many years ago sits heavily on her conscience. And when she is faced with the opportunity to redeem herself, she takes it, even if she has to give up everything she has, including her freedom to live. But even with such a sacrifice, her guilt does not go away until she makes one ultimate decision--forgiving herself.

The tales of these protagonists in their amazing journey of forgiveness are worth telling because forgiveness is a process everyone has to muster through. And oftentimes, it becomes one of our best kept secrets. The beauty of such stories does not only lie in the way they are written, it lies in the way they shape our lives, giving us a glimpse of hope in everything that is bleak. Because sometimes, a glimpse is all we need to conquer our fear. And when all is said and done, that dark place inside us will also be the place where most lights are born.

People say, forgive and forget. But as authors, we know very well that we never forget.

If you haven't had a chance to read The Housekeeper's Son, get yourself a copy by visiting my website (click here). You may also download an ebook version on your Kindle, Nook, and iBook.

Comment below and share with me about one book that takes you on a journey of forgiveness.

Explaining Cultures

As part of my virtual book tour, I was asked to write about the best way to explain a foreign culture to my readers. To read the entire article, simply click the link below:

http://www.lehuaparker.com/2012/07/15/guest-blog-explaining-cultures-by-christopher-loke/

And my book site is up. Check it out!

http://www.jollyfishpress.com/authors/Christopher_Loke/The_Housekeeper's_Son/the_housekeeper's_son.html

Until next time, keep writing!

Currently Buest Globbing!

I've been so busy guest blogging that I've really no reason to blog here--at least for these few weeks. So, I'm going to direct everyone to my first blog post as a guest, all for the sake of promoting my book and such. And when all the buest globbing is done, I'll start talking about important things again, like how to effectively eat a hamburger or trap a fairy in your own garden (fantasy fans will be elated).

So, without much ado, let's move on to business. This week, I guest blogged for one of my favorite authors, the amazing Ms. Jennifer Griffith, whose debut novel, Big in Japan, comes out September 28. (She's going to write something spiffy for me here one of these days, she promised.)

Basically, click the link below and go read what I have to say about apples and bananas:

http://www.authorjennifergriffith.com/?p=300

Have fun reading, and if you like it, leave her a comment!

Dragon's Blood

The first time I saw a ghost I was at my grandmother's house. I was walking up the stairs toward the attic, a dark and musty place, out of boredom and childhood curiosity. People had warned me about not going up the back stairs because it was dangerous. The stairs were steep and there was only one yellow lightbulb to light the way. It flickered incessantly, but I did not mind. I wasn't brave, but I was determined.

It was a summer afternoon in a small village a few hours north of my hometown in Malaysia. The tropical breeze was warm, sticky. The coconut trees swayed as if they would tumble at any time. The birds chirped, the leaves rustled, and my grandmother was napping. I was alone, ready to explore the old house.

When I reached the top, all I could see was the cone of light from the attic window, an square opening about three feet wide. It was left open, the shutters rattling against the wall when a light wind blew. The attic was roomy, dusty, and old. The floorboards creaked as I walked. My heart was beating--I was excited. An adventure, finally, I thought. And that was when I saw her--the lady in white.

She was standing by the back door beside the bannister, close to the window away from the light. Her face was calm, and she was wearing a traditional Chinese blouse that reminded me of the servants of old. Her hair was tightly pulled back in a bun secured by a hair pin with a jade ornament on the side. Her earrings dangled on her earlobes, light but regal. The bottom part of her body was in the shadows.

There I stood, motionless, unable to talk or think of anything else. I knew she wasn't someone I knew or recognized. I also knew she did not belong in my grandmother's house. But somehow, I knew she knew who I was. Her eyes were quiet, concentrating on me. Her lips curved up, and I thought I saw a smile. I wasn't scared--I was more surprised than scared. And then I heard her speak, a whisper, a breath, "Welcome home, my child. You are the master of this house, the long-awaited heir to a line of dragon's blood." I took a step back, almost tripping down the stairs. But I held on to the bannister in time and balanced myself. I stared at this lady and wondered who she was.

"You will know who I am once you find out who you are." With that she slowly turned into darkness, shadows that sank deep into the crevices of the wooden walls. I blinked and she was no more.

As the years passed, I slowly forgot about that day in my grandmother's attic. Life took over, and I was soon buried in the hustle and bustle of work and school. It wasn't until my grandmother's passing that I finally learned about myself and the lady in white.

At the funeral, everyone was submerged in deep thoughts. My father came down from the attic with a box. Inside were letters, keepsakes, and pictures my grandmother had kept since she was a girl. As we sat--the entire Loke clan--going through every piece of history in that box, we came across a black-and-white photograph of my grandmother when she was still a little girl, no more than three years old. She was being carried by an older man whom we understood was her father. My great grandmother and a few other ladies were also in the picture, some sitting, some standing, all looking at us in complete seriousness. They wore traditional Chinese costumes, showing their high status in stiff collars and pressed silk.

And that was when I saw her--the lady in white--standing behind my great grandmother, smiling, a young woman then with playful eyes and a handkerchief in one hand. I recognized her and I shook.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Your grandmother's governess," my aunt answered. "She'd come from China with your grandmother when your grandmother was still a baby."

"What happened to her?" I grimaced.

"Why do you ask?" my father said, picking up another photograph of my grandmother when she was a teenager, the lady in white standing next to her, holding hands.

"Just curious," I lied.

"She died of pneumonia after jumping into the water to save your grandmother in a drowning accident. She was your grandmother's best friend, and she'd sacrificed her life so that your grandmother could live. And because of her,"--my father removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose--"because of her, we are all here."

"Look," cousin Clara pointed to another photograph, teared and frayed at the corners. "Those people look funny." The photograph showed a man and a woman sitting side by side on what looked like thrones. They wore Chinese imperial headdresses, their expression austere, their hands on their laps.

"Let me see," my father inspected the photograph a little closer. "Ah, they are your ancestors, the Princess ZhiJun and the Duke of Nanjing. This was taken in the mid-nineteenth century in the Forbidden City."

My eyes opened wide. "You mean we were royalty?"

"We still are, my son," my father smiled. "You have the dragon's blood in you, my first born and heir to the Loke dynasty."

As I looked around my grandmother's house, I saw my relatives mingling, laughing, crying, revisiting childhood days in pure delight. My grandmother's house wasn't grand; it was a wooden building built in the early nineteen hundreds, wearing down in a few areas. But as simple as it was, the house was--at that moment-- also the place where dragons convene, the few remaining descendants of the Ching Dynasty of China, the last dynasty to rule the Middle Kingdom. And I smiled at the thought.

The Importance of Being Gay

As The Housekeeper's Son will be released on the morrow (May 19, 2012), I'm inspired to write a little about one of the subtle subplots in my book--the importance of being gay. The subject homosexuality is a sensitive one to many, so I shall try to tread lightly on fragile areas, yet clear in my intent.

Last week, President Obama announced his support for gay marriage, which caused an uproar among conservatives and Christian groups alike. (Notice that I don't use the term "religious groups." It's because Christian sects contribute to the majority of the protests against homosexuality.) I don't negate their love for traditional marriage and their need to uphold the standards of morality according to the dictates of their religion. I, too, belong to a conservative religion that does not tolerate the act of homosexuality--I understand where these protestors are coming from--so, of all people, I should know better. (Now, again, I am careful with my words. We don't condemn the sinner. Just the sin, right?) But the looming question remains: Is homosexuality even a sin?

In The Housekeeper's Son, I have created a world of conservatism with conservative, religious players. And then I throw in my main character, who is anything but conservative. After all, she'd killed a couple of little people. But the one character that I want to talk about is Edmund, the only seemingly gay character in my book, although the truth of it is still debatable, because much of the observation comes from Eleanor, the housekeeper and protagonist. And if you know her as well as I do, she can be a little confused upstairs. However, the idea of a gay kid growing up in a Mormon family is interesting to me, which I explore in the book.

Edmund's story is never about being gay at all. Like many gay people I know, being gay is never the issue. But being accepted and treated equally is. Being gay is like being black, white, red, or yellow. It is like having a limp. It is like being a little slow in learning. It is like losing a father, a mother, a sibling. It's like being poor. Or being old. Being gay is no different from being you or being me. It's about being different. And if being different is a sin, then being gay should also be. There should be no exceptions. No double standards. Now, wait a minute. That doesn't seem so right, does it?

In our world today, perception rules our actions. What we see is often what we believe. By writing The Housekeeper's Son, I hope to help people understand that not all ugly things are ugly. Not all beautiful things are beautiful, either. There is good in everything, if only we take the effort to explore, to discover.

So, back to our subject at hand: Why is it important to be gay? Because it reminds us of the battles we fought, collectively and individually, for our worth as humans. We have fought for our children to go to the same school regardless of race and color. We have fought for our daughters to be able to vote and earn a fair salary. We have fought for our right to belong. And now, we are fighting again--this old war--to be able to love and live honestly, without lies and without fear.

And here's the truth, as Edmund painfully learns: the enemy is never out there. It's in us.

The Housekeeper's Son will be released worldwide May 19, 2012. You are all invited to the launch party. For details, click here.

What the Heck Have I Written?

So, the official launch of my book is about ten days away; my heart is pounding and I can barely concentrate. I've got a lot of things in my head--big and bigger things. But of all the fast-moving objects that convolute my simple thought-process, one question remains in the foreground, huge and looming: What the heck have I written and why would anyone want to read it?

So, without much ado, I present to you a conversation with myself in my attempt to answer the epic question posed above.

"How are you today?" he asks.
"Fine, thank you," I answer. "Never been better."
"So, your book is coming out in a little more than a week. What are your thoughts?"
"I just peed my pants," I snort. There is brief moment of awkward silence. "I'm just kidding. It's obviously a joke--"
"Just answer my previous question."
"Ah, yes," I say. "I feel nervous."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not so sure what people will be saying about the book. My first book."
"It seems like a normal thing. All authors have to face this kind of nervousness some day." The interviewer smiles.
"I know." I heave. "I'll get over it."
"Tell me about your book. What is it about?"
"It's about an old woman--" I pause. "She kills her son, goes to prison, gets released, works as a housekeeper, and kills again. This time it's her employer's daughter."
"Sounds interesting."
"Does it?"
"Of course. You have a protagonist who is also your antagonist. Your main character is also the villain. Now, isn't that genius." He claps, takes a deep breath, and continues. "Why does she kill? What is the reason for her to do so?"
I think for a while, gathering my thoughts. "She kills because she has to. She has no other choice. She is put in a position where she has to pick her battles. She has to choose between two evils."
"Now, that is a deep plot," he says, turning to read his notes. "According to some critics, the idea of killing children just may not sit so well with readers who are parents, or people who have a soft spot for little children."
"That's the point--to bring some danger and tension into people's lives. I never like playing it safe. I want to cause people to think."
"Think?" he looks puzzled. "Think of what? Killing children?"
"No. I want people to think about the act of killing children. It is an unfathomable sin. Yet, this old woman, my protagonist--a mother herself--is subject to that decision. Can you imagine the hell she has to go through to make that kind of decision?"
"So, it is a decision. She's not a psycho killer."
"That is what makes the book so amazing. She is not a murderer. It's a choice she is forced to make, and she chooses the lesser of the two evils--murder."
"That is very thought-provoking. So, what is the universal theme of your novel? Surely you must have one."
"In fact, I do. If not, I wouldn't have written it," I say. "The Housekeeper's Son is about choices. It's about how society labels everything. We tend to associate certain actions with either good or bad. For example, let's talk about lying."
"You mean the act of telling lies?" he asks.
"Yes. Not all lies are bad, right? Sometimes you lie to protect yourself. And you shouldn't be guilty about it either."
"But you're talking about murder here in your book."
"Yes, but it's all the same. Some people have to kill to survive."
"Your protagonist has to kill to survive?"
"Not in so many words, but yes," I nod.
A sound erupts.
"What is that?" he asks, pinching his nose.
I snigger.
"Did you just fart?" He stands and makes a face; he is clearly disgusted. "I can't believe you did that."
"I'm human. I make mistakes," I shrug.
"But in a professional interview?"
"I'm sorry, but farting's not even a crime and you're already so perturbed by it. You've suddenly labeled me by an insignificant action."
"Your point?"
"Sit down, please," I ask. He straightens his jacket and sits. "Amazing, isn't it? That people tend to get so fussed up about small little things they forget about the bigger things. Sometimes murder is the only way to save a child."
"Do you think people will love your book?"
"I sure hope so."
"You consider yourself a good writer?"
"I hope so. But I'm not without flaws. I'm not perfect. I am not a grammarian or a professor of the English language. I am merely a storyteller who can write better than most people." I smile. "So, is my book perfect? No, it's not. But is it worth reading? Absolutely!"
"Looks like your confidence is back. Nice to see you so excited about your first book. Will there be more?"
"You betcha."
"Can you tell me about the book you're working on?"
I sit back. "I'll have to get back to you on that. Take a rain check." I wink.
Another awkward silence follows.
"Okay, then," he says.
"Yeah, I think we are done?"
"Sure." He lets out a loud fart nonchalantly.
"What was that about?"
"What, the fact that I just passed gas? I thought you said never to judge. I'm just practicing what you preached."
"You disgust me."
"The feeling is mutual." He pats me lightly on my back, his eyes looking elsewhere. "Thanks for the interview. It's really crap. You've really outdone yourself this time. You've written a piece of epic crap."
"I know. And thanks for asking the most stupid questions in the whole wide world."
He turns to leave, muttering one last word under his breath: "Ugh, what a waste of time."
"But wait," I holler.
He stops and turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Are we going to talk about the ending of my book?" I ask.
"Not interested anymore."
"But it's a twist of an ending. You'll love it."
"You think so?" He approaches me.
"I know so."
"Will it blow my mind away?"
"My aunt Bertha read it, and her head literally exploded when she reached the ending. Does that count? She made quite a mess."
[Transcript ends]

There, you have it. My interview with myself. And it really helps clear up a few things in my mind. I am now ready to go out and face the world. Well, the truth is, my publicist will probably question this blog. But oh, well. Life is about living. And I often live it strangely in awkward circumstances. That's how I like it.

Until next time, I invite all of you to come support me. Attend my launch party and buy a book. A copy of the flyer can be downloaded here. See you all there. And remember to come tell me how good I am when you see me. I love compliments. (Who doesn't?)

www.facebook.com/AuthorChristopherLoke
Twitter: @ChristopherLoke

The Housekeeper's Son: The Making of a Novel

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

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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. 
5. 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

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

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.”

(Excerpted from THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SON by Christopher Loke. Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Loke. Excerpted by permission of Jolly Fish Press, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.) 

The World Between Yours and Mine

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

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

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?

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

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 . . .

The Man Who Sat Alone

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!

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?

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:

1. Address your agent by first or last name, and not Sir or Ma'am.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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

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.