Book Review: Utterly Yours, Booker Jones

I do believe in writer's block. But then I also do believe that sometimes writer's block is a product of our own inner problems, of radical changes in our lives that we can't seem to solve.

Mom was scavenging for old albums and books in their room and piled a number of old reads in the table when I found the book "Utterly Yours, Booker Jones" by Betsy Duffey, which I have read since I was in high school. The story revolves around a frustrated but hopeful at the same time writer Walter "Booker" Jones, who wants his fictional novels like Space Cows and Worms from the Planet Spaghetti to get published one day. Just like bestselling author of Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert, the 12-year-old boy frequently annoys different publishing companies with his very bad stories and novels by sending each chapter of his book. But every time a reply goes 'We're very sorry but your story do not meet the demands of our list.' In other words, he gets rejected every time.

But the story does not only revolve around Booker's passion in writing and his failures to publish his novels, but also revolves around how he has changed when his favorite grandfather, who is also a published author and columnist, got sick and fell and moved in to their house. This meant giving up Booker's room, living and doing long division problems under the dining table with drapes and a sleeping bag, and a virtually messed up family of a hopeless mother, a busy father and a bitch 'sistoid'.

The conflict started when Booker was trapped by his best friend Germ to write a speech about the rally because the PTA wanted to change the name of the school mascot Wolf Pack into the Fighting Pickles. Booker was currently writing his book on Space Cows and he didn't seem to get the hang of writing a speech. It entailed a deadline, an anxiety, another problem that can't be solved. A writer's block.

On the day of the rally, Booker was empty-handed. However, he began to realize the importance of writing with his grandfather's clippings of columns and realized that his Pop deserves being just a nuisance and a problem in the house. He began to rearrange his room and transferred all his grandfather's things to his room, while he moved his things to the dining room where he currently lives and sleeps.

"This is your room now, Pop," he had said. The rally was looming, but he felt peace, and for the first time in a long time, an idea popped into his mind about his speech for the rally. With nothing but a pen and a rally rag, the words flowed like a river from his hands. During the rally, he was able to pull off his speech and a lot of people especially the parents were moved. It was his first successful speech, and what's more, the newspaper reporter asked him if they could publish his essay to the daily newspaper the next day. It became his first ever huge break. He was not Booker Jones, person anymore; but Booker Jones, author.

I can really relate to the book because I also love to write and I've been breathing it since elementary; I wrote fan fictions about my favorite series Dragon Ball Z when I was ten, tried to make a novel about me and my crush at 12 and joined the journalism club in high school for three years. I started to blog four years ago and I still keep writing. During high school my mentor Ms. Josephine Bonsol always gambled me to schools press conferences but I always lost. I had my huge break in 2011 when my essay was published in The Philippine Star. I joined the same essay writing contest four times and got published twice. I felt I was invincible.

But I also experienced my writer's block in third year college when I was writing a linguistics paper. Something happened and I could not seem to add anything better for my paper and ended up submitting a really terrible paper to my professors. This was a radical part of my life that I could not seem to comprehend and so my writing was also affected.

But then I regained in the rainy season of July 2014 when I was 'reset' and I realized that I love writing more than anything else--it is not just a distraction, a way to pass the time, but a passion that I will always look for because it is my home.

Published Essays: The Woman I Never Understood

http://www.philstar.com/Article.aspx?articleId=686135&publicationSubCat

When you cry, she cries more. When you hurt, she hurts more. And when you say you love her, she will only smile and whisper under her breath, “I don’t even have to say it; you know I love you more.”

Acceptance is a virtue. I was taught in high school that one thing I have to accept is my natural limitation in understanding everything, especially at my age. Then I was also taught to realize that as part of the emotionally confused youth, I tend to think I’m Superman and sometimes decide on big things on my own, not quite realizing they’re not for me to make. I do understand the cultural norms in life, both at the positive and negative levels, but it deeply struck me to tears when Mitch Albom’s For One More Day seemed to ask: “But do you understand her?”

I simply don’t. She always forgets her favorite movie titles. She always narrates her whereabouts at work. She always sleeps early at night. She always washes our clothes early in the morning. She always dozes over half of the movie she watches. She, more often than not, scolds our big sister for simply this and that.

But that’s all I see about her. It didn’t strike me at first that I should see her as a puzzle, a riddle; all that she shows to us is a big understatement of who she really is. In a daughter’s eyes, she is simply a mother. A caring mother. An overprotective mother. Like Chick Benetto’s mom, mine also nags me about everything. From schoolwork to socks to untied shoelaces to extra bottles of water to lunch bags, she always reminds me not to forget these simple things, and I’m like, “I know mom. I’m a Girl Scout, remember?”

Looking back, I figured I was not quite the Girl Scout at all. My busy school days left me forgetful most of the time and all I could do was call my mom back home for my silly school project. And she would always tell me she’s already on her way because she knew beforehand. She always knew. School clothes, my favorite lunch, and extra money — all those things. I seldom had to ask her; she always knew.

Like Chick, I also made my mom angry at times. I never got as far as smoking like when Chick hid cigarettes from his mom, but I always make mine mad by informing her about small trips or sleepovers at the last minute. She really hates panicking, she gets all upset and irritated. There was one night when my twin sister and I got home from school and quickly ran through our closets while we told her we would have a sleepover for a last-minute class practice. While she hid her utmost worry with lengthy reminders and more scolding, she diligently helped us prepare our stuff and even made us nice sandwiches for dinner. Then she kissed us a long goodbye.

At times when I thought I was able to successfully slip past her doubts and rejections about such trips, I tried to analyze why I still had to escape from her strict methods. I began to wonder how mothers get their exaggerated protective instincts about everything, and why we kids should have to endure it.

But then my high school mentor, Josephine Bonsol, also a mother, taught me how to understand my mom more. She said I should take into account the sufferings and frustrations she may have gone through when she was young, making her what she is now and unconsciously imposing on us the strict methods she was once also under.

I remember one of her stories about her mom being too strict with her, being the oldest one. She bitterly recalled how her mom always scolded her about everything even though she didn’t do anything wrong. But what I admired about my mom the most was her determination not to physically hurt us the way she was paddled with a dos-por-dos during her childhood days.

I cannot say I fully understand her now because I can still see her only as my mother. I cannot see her as a woman who may have deeper stories and frustrations in life. It’s because she’s not only my mother: she’s also a daughter, a sibling, a wife and a woman.

But I can proudly say I love her more now, especially after crying over Chick’s ghost story with her mom. Mitch Albom made me want to value the days I can have thinking I may never have one more day with her.

But then again, at this young age with a promising future I believe would last for more than just one day, it’s hard to think I could lose her any day now. Although I was also taught to always think about what may happen in the future, it always seems like a macrocosmic concept — or reality — too big to be grasped by a 17-year-old. My head’s always filled with the things I want and dream to do — watch movies, travel around the world, get rich and be a “citizen of the world.” When I look at Mom, I simply see the woman who never failed to bring out the best in me and who supported me all the way, not the ghost who would haunt me and bitterly whisper, “Life goes quickly, doesn’t it? I miss you every day, Je.”

It’s heartbreaking when I think of it now. Maybe especially for Chick who wasn’t even there when his mom died. And especially when he actually had the chance to save her but he couldn’t because he had lied. I have lied to my mother a ton of times, and now I’m wondering if there should be a scheduled time I should admit it all to her, so I would not believe I didn’t trust her all along. Or maybe I should admit all of it now. Time can be tricky, I guess, and scary when you think there’s a lot more left but it’s actually even shorter than a day.

I know I will definitely cry when I lose her. But not with guilt. Not with frustration that I wasn’t able to give all the love a daughter could ever give to her mother. After all, she would then only whisper to me, “You can’t lose your mother, honey.”

But before my mom the ghost can even mutter it to me, I will not fail to say to her, “I love you every day, Mom!” Every day.