A young woman who just attempted to end her life. Her father who did not only have time for his family, but actually turned his back on them in favor of his Hollywood career and a younger woman. Her Nana (grandmother) who would not give up on her granddaughter.
These are the three main characters in Jan Goldtein’s debut novel, All that Matters, a story of hope and redemption.
Jennifer Stempler felt she had no more open door to turn to. The love of her life left her, her mother died in a tragic car accident, and her producer father had a new wife and a new-born girl. No, she would not be missed. So she pursued oblivion on the beach near her home in Venice, California.
But oblivion, it did not come. When Jennifer opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the “worn and wrinkled face” of her Nana, the one person she was sure would be deeply hurt if she died; and the last person she wanted to see her in her present state.
But here she was, deeply caring and loving that soon, when Jennifer's choices were narrowed down into three: stay in a psychiatric institution, or stay with her father (whose new wife made it known they wouldn’t have time caring for a suicidal woman), or stay with her Nana, Jennifer chose the last, against her father’s will.
And, though at first she was oblivious to her Nana’s love, warmth, and determination, she was soon beginning to re-embrace life. But just as she was starting to trust, love, and hope again, her Nana dies. With her Nana gone, the challenge now for Jennifer was to keep going on.
Deeply moving, All that Matters shows that deep love truly can move mountains and help lost souls find their way again. It affirms that, indeed, there are doors that are always open for us; all we need to do is look. And that even those that are closed will open, if we only learn to knock.
Let me share some of the quotes in the book:
“Across the street Jennifer observed a driver trying in vain to park her SUV in a space half the size she needed. It was the story of her life. She simply couldn’t wedge herself into a space in life where circumstances out of her control had left her no room.”
Jennifer (looking at something through her camcorder): “You want to see the real world, you have to shut off all distractions. It’s a matter of focus. Most people only think they see what’s going on.”
Gabby (Jennifer’s Nana): “The world isn’t in that damn lens. You’re so busy focusing, only you’re missing everything that matters.”
“Gabby: This rock has seen many storms. Here it stands exposed to the elements, covered with the scars of its past. But one thing that always gave me comfort in coming here—it has not crumbled. It is still standing at the water’s edge, facing the wind and the sea and whatever the future will bring.”
“Sometimes the gifts come wrapped in pain and the other times they hit you smack-dab in the pain when you are totally unprepared.”
“Like the pages she had yet to fill in her journal and like the white surface of the ice beneath her, Jennifer could see her future, as her Nana had said, was intriguingly blank and full of possibilities. It was waiting for her to write it, to fill the pages of her tomorrows with the life she alone could create.”
"All that Matters" Abstract
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
FREELANCING HOBBIES
Now that I am free from the shackles of a fulltime job, I can already start doing the things I’ve promised myself I’d do when I have the time. I am listing here the things I want to accomplish (besides work) as a reminder for myself.
Travel. I love going to places. It has always been my dream to see different parts of the country (and of the world?), meet people, experience different cultures, and write about them. For me, travel writing is one of the most enjoyable writing jobs on earth.
Photography. Travel articles will never look good without good travel photos. There is no ugly subject, only lousy photographers. I hope I can eventually cross the line between amateur and pro-like.
Videography. With the advent of photo-editing programs, it should be easily doable now. And with my online tutor (hehehe) to help me, I’m sure I’d soon be able to make loads and loads of good videos. (Hey, please give pointers, guys!)
Dressmaking. No, I am not planning to eventually put up a dressmaking business. All I wanna do is sew my own and family members’ dresses. I hate going from one boutique to another, and not being able to find a dress I’d love to wear. Often, in RTWs, there is one element I don’t like, like color, or button, or the hem, or the length, or whatev.
Writing. I am not talking about blog posts. Not even the magazine type articles that I write. I am talking about fiction. Short story. I hope I could sit down and really write soon.
Travel. I love going to places. It has always been my dream to see different parts of the country (and of the world?), meet people, experience different cultures, and write about them. For me, travel writing is one of the most enjoyable writing jobs on earth.
Photography. Travel articles will never look good without good travel photos. There is no ugly subject, only lousy photographers. I hope I can eventually cross the line between amateur and pro-like.
Videography. With the advent of photo-editing programs, it should be easily doable now. And with my online tutor (hehehe) to help me, I’m sure I’d soon be able to make loads and loads of good videos. (Hey, please give pointers, guys!)
Dressmaking. No, I am not planning to eventually put up a dressmaking business. All I wanna do is sew my own and family members’ dresses. I hate going from one boutique to another, and not being able to find a dress I’d love to wear. Often, in RTWs, there is one element I don’t like, like color, or button, or the hem, or the length, or whatev.
Writing. I am not talking about blog posts. Not even the magazine type articles that I write. I am talking about fiction. Short story. I hope I could sit down and really write soon.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
IN A HURRY
“Para ho, Mama!” I called out to the driver and immediately got off the FX when he pulled over. He seemed annoyed. “Sorry ho,” I mumbled apologetically, then walked away, not bothering to explain why I had to get off almost as soon as I boarded.
I cursed myself. It’s the third time in six weeks that I’d forgotten something. Last week, I forgot my research paper at the office, and only remembered to check it when I was almost at the school. Of course, I did go back to the office to retrieve it (I had no choice because it was the last day of submission) and missed nearly half of the lesson. I was also marked late.
This time, it’s my wallet I’d left. I would have decided not to go and get it, but I had nothing in my pockets. My only consolation is that I realized it while I was still a walking distance from my apartment.
I checked the time. It was already half past nine in the morning. I should already be at the MRT station by now. I walked faster, telling myself for the nth time to prepare everything I needed before leaving the house. But then, I realized I did prepare my things last night. I was just very much in a hurry this morning that I forgot to put back my wallet into my bag after pulling out a small bill. It must be lying on the bedside table.
I walked faster. But as I did, familiar words rang in my head: “Apay ngamin aya kabsat ta kasla ka la agapura nga ania. Dumanonkanto met laeng dita, patiennak. Madmadi man no apuraem amin a banag. Ad-adu ti mapukaw mo no kua ta madim’ maappreciate ti panagbarom. Iti panagbiag, kasla ka met la agdaldaliasat ket. No agap-apura ka a kankanayon, dim’ maapreciate dagiti malabasam. Ken ad-adu pay ti malipatam no kua! Baka isunto’t mapanmo subsublien!”
I cringed. Those were my words to my youngest brother, Ryan, when he contemplated getting married at the young age of 22. I wondered what he would tell me if he learned I’m also afflicted with “ap-apura” syndrome (though it’s of different form) and how hopeless my case is. “Manang, ti panagdaliasat, kasla met laeng panagbiag ket. No apura ka nga apura, ad-adu ti mapukawmo ta adu’t malipatam. Baka isunto ti subsubliam! Dimo la ngaruden maappreciate dagiti malabasam, sayang pay ti bannog ken pamasahem. No intedmo la koman a nayon ti igatang iti gatas ni Pau-pau (his son), di isu pay!”
“Oy, Sherma, ba’t ka nakangiti?“ It was Rose, my next-door neighbor and a good friend. Already dressed for work, she was just getting out of her room. I felt my face go hot. I realized I had already passed through our gate and I was already standing right in front of my door, stupidly smiling alone.
“Wala girl. I was just in a hurry,” I said, laughing, and ran into the house, leaving her deeply puzzled.
I cursed myself. It’s the third time in six weeks that I’d forgotten something. Last week, I forgot my research paper at the office, and only remembered to check it when I was almost at the school. Of course, I did go back to the office to retrieve it (I had no choice because it was the last day of submission) and missed nearly half of the lesson. I was also marked late.
This time, it’s my wallet I’d left. I would have decided not to go and get it, but I had nothing in my pockets. My only consolation is that I realized it while I was still a walking distance from my apartment.
I checked the time. It was already half past nine in the morning. I should already be at the MRT station by now. I walked faster, telling myself for the nth time to prepare everything I needed before leaving the house. But then, I realized I did prepare my things last night. I was just very much in a hurry this morning that I forgot to put back my wallet into my bag after pulling out a small bill. It must be lying on the bedside table.
I walked faster. But as I did, familiar words rang in my head: “Apay ngamin aya kabsat ta kasla ka la agapura nga ania. Dumanonkanto met laeng dita, patiennak. Madmadi man no apuraem amin a banag. Ad-adu ti mapukaw mo no kua ta madim’ maappreciate ti panagbarom. Iti panagbiag, kasla ka met la agdaldaliasat ket. No agap-apura ka a kankanayon, dim’ maapreciate dagiti malabasam. Ken ad-adu pay ti malipatam no kua! Baka isunto’t mapanmo subsublien!”
I cringed. Those were my words to my youngest brother, Ryan, when he contemplated getting married at the young age of 22. I wondered what he would tell me if he learned I’m also afflicted with “ap-apura” syndrome (though it’s of different form) and how hopeless my case is. “Manang, ti panagdaliasat, kasla met laeng panagbiag ket. No apura ka nga apura, ad-adu ti mapukawmo ta adu’t malipatam. Baka isunto ti subsubliam! Dimo la ngaruden maappreciate dagiti malabasam, sayang pay ti bannog ken pamasahem. No intedmo la koman a nayon ti igatang iti gatas ni Pau-pau (his son), di isu pay!”
“Oy, Sherma, ba’t ka nakangiti?“ It was Rose, my next-door neighbor and a good friend. Already dressed for work, she was just getting out of her room. I felt my face go hot. I realized I had already passed through our gate and I was already standing right in front of my door, stupidly smiling alone.
“Wala girl. I was just in a hurry,” I said, laughing, and ran into the house, leaving her deeply puzzled.
Friday, September 14, 2007
If Life Were a Novel
I’ve read somewhere that the people we cross paths with were put there by a divine hand, not at random, but very carefully, because they have a role to play in our lives. Some of these people will play significant roles, while others will have a very brief appearance because they play larger roles in others’ lives.
Lately I have been thinking, if the people that come to our lives and the events that happen were plotted by a divine hand, then our life is like a novel where the divine hand is the author, and we and the people that come to our lives are the characters.
For a while, this idea seemed acceptable to me, until another came to my mind: if our life was plotted from the very start, then we are simply acting out a role that has been given to us, and we are merely voicing out words that have been put to our mouth.
At this thought I became restless. I’ve always believed that our thoughts, feelings, actions, and words are ours. Because if they aren’t, then why would we be answerable for them to the very author who has willed us to think, feel, say, and do them? If we are only acting out a role and saying words that aren’t our own, then why would we be responsible for their consequences? With these thoughts, I realized that there is a glitch somewhere.
At first I suspected that the idea that someone has authored our life might be wrong. But I also found it unacceptable for it to be otherwise. After all, if our life depended entirely upon us — on our actions and that of others — then why are there things that are beyond our control? Why are there instances when, even with meticulous planning and execution, things just don’t happen the way we planned them? Why do we get to meet people we had not thought of, and had not even planned to meet? And why were we made to trudge this wilderness, with the family we had not picked to be born to, under certain conditions that had not been our own choosing?
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I came to the very same realization I had come to in my previous attempts to grasp man’s existence: that life is too mysterious for the human mind to fathom; that to attempt to do so would be like trying to put all the waters of an ocean into a hole the size of the human head.
But even with this realization, I still would not want to give up the attempt, not because I think I have what it takes to comprehend heavenly designs, but because I believe that having a picture of what we believe to be the design would be better by far than having nothing at all. After all, we are only as worthy as the value we put to ourselves. Our life is only as good as the meaning we ascribe to our existence.
At the moment, I still think that life can be likened to a novel, with the divine hand as the author, and us as the characters, except that this time, the author is understood to be unlike any mortal writer. Though like ordinary authors, He has chosen all the characters and the setting and has prepared the outline of our story, He has left the details to us — the characters. He has endowed us with the gifts of reason and insight to know right from wrong; giving us different ways on how we can proceed, and presenting us with options. And now thus equipped, he has allowed us to have a say in our story, of which we are both a character and a co-author.
______
The plot that is my life? Let me see. I’ve walked over valleys and plains, I’ve stumbled and tripped over humps many times, and I’ve been swept off by strong winds on some occasions; but I’ve also basked in the sun, sniffed sweet-scented flowers, and walked hand-in-hand with peace and happiness. So I believe I have a good life; my life is a fairly good book.
//Sherma E. Benosa; 29 August 2007; 2:29am
Lately I have been thinking, if the people that come to our lives and the events that happen were plotted by a divine hand, then our life is like a novel where the divine hand is the author, and we and the people that come to our lives are the characters.
For a while, this idea seemed acceptable to me, until another came to my mind: if our life was plotted from the very start, then we are simply acting out a role that has been given to us, and we are merely voicing out words that have been put to our mouth.
At this thought I became restless. I’ve always believed that our thoughts, feelings, actions, and words are ours. Because if they aren’t, then why would we be answerable for them to the very author who has willed us to think, feel, say, and do them? If we are only acting out a role and saying words that aren’t our own, then why would we be responsible for their consequences? With these thoughts, I realized that there is a glitch somewhere.
At first I suspected that the idea that someone has authored our life might be wrong. But I also found it unacceptable for it to be otherwise. After all, if our life depended entirely upon us — on our actions and that of others — then why are there things that are beyond our control? Why are there instances when, even with meticulous planning and execution, things just don’t happen the way we planned them? Why do we get to meet people we had not thought of, and had not even planned to meet? And why were we made to trudge this wilderness, with the family we had not picked to be born to, under certain conditions that had not been our own choosing?
With these thoughts swirling in my head, I came to the very same realization I had come to in my previous attempts to grasp man’s existence: that life is too mysterious for the human mind to fathom; that to attempt to do so would be like trying to put all the waters of an ocean into a hole the size of the human head.
But even with this realization, I still would not want to give up the attempt, not because I think I have what it takes to comprehend heavenly designs, but because I believe that having a picture of what we believe to be the design would be better by far than having nothing at all. After all, we are only as worthy as the value we put to ourselves. Our life is only as good as the meaning we ascribe to our existence.
At the moment, I still think that life can be likened to a novel, with the divine hand as the author, and us as the characters, except that this time, the author is understood to be unlike any mortal writer. Though like ordinary authors, He has chosen all the characters and the setting and has prepared the outline of our story, He has left the details to us — the characters. He has endowed us with the gifts of reason and insight to know right from wrong; giving us different ways on how we can proceed, and presenting us with options. And now thus equipped, he has allowed us to have a say in our story, of which we are both a character and a co-author.
______
The plot that is my life? Let me see. I’ve walked over valleys and plains, I’ve stumbled and tripped over humps many times, and I’ve been swept off by strong winds on some occasions; but I’ve also basked in the sun, sniffed sweet-scented flowers, and walked hand-in-hand with peace and happiness. So I believe I have a good life; my life is a fairly good book.
//Sherma E. Benosa; 29 August 2007; 2:29am
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Traveler
Unpaved, the path’s long and winding
Curves abound and humps are plenty.
The trek’s arduous, the journey’s taxing
And the trail, narrow, rough and thorny.
You walk still, despite that your lane
Present you no refreshing scenery.
And your companion, a searing pain
Of your fruitless search, your misery.
Then finally you learn to listen
You start hearing your heart’s melody.
Then your eyes, you learn to open
The beauty around you, you begin to see.
You notice the compass guiding you
And the northern star lighting your way.
The open arms reaching out to you
Marking your track so you won’t stray.
Things, no longer do they seem bleak
The clouds that hovered above, now part.
The beams of light you used to seek
No longer elusive, now inside your heart.
You walk on; the journey’s not yet ended.
Beckoning, cheering you not to concede
Is destiny, waiting for you up ahead.
You take her hand; her voice you heed.
//Sherma E. Benosa;
11 September 2007; 1:26am
Curves abound and humps are plenty.
The trek’s arduous, the journey’s taxing
And the trail, narrow, rough and thorny.
You walk still, despite that your lane
Present you no refreshing scenery.
And your companion, a searing pain
Of your fruitless search, your misery.
Then finally you learn to listen
You start hearing your heart’s melody.
Then your eyes, you learn to open
The beauty around you, you begin to see.
You notice the compass guiding you
And the northern star lighting your way.
The open arms reaching out to you
Marking your track so you won’t stray.
Things, no longer do they seem bleak
The clouds that hovered above, now part.
The beams of light you used to seek
No longer elusive, now inside your heart.
You walk on; the journey’s not yet ended.
Beckoning, cheering you not to concede
Is destiny, waiting for you up ahead.
You take her hand; her voice you heed.
//Sherma E. Benosa;
11 September 2007; 1:26am
Sunday, September 09, 2007
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