A tristeza de nunca ser bastante . . .

I thought it was about time I posted an excerpt from my dad's novel in case anyone is interested. Here are the first few pages. Let me know what you think.

 

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Everyone and their pet goldfish seems to be talking about National Novel Writing Month so I thought I would throw my hat into the ring. I've never participated in NaNoWriMo and since I'm already working on a novel I decided to set a word count goal for this month instead. I will try to write 30,000 words of my novel by the end of the month. That's 1,000 words a day. So far I've been doing really well. I actually finished the first draft of the first part of the novel today! Hurray! I can't believe I've come this far, but let me tell ya, having two agents interested in reading one's novel when it's finished does wonders for one's motivation.

Now I find myself a little nervous, though, because I'm officially in the middle of the book. I know all these various things that happen, but not how they all connect or what happens in between. It feels a lot like wading through pudding in the dark while trying to avoid a vast network of underpudding potholes. I think I finally understand what people mean when they say just write and don't worry about how bad your writing is, because when you're writing something so much longer and more complicated than a short story you really can't afford to stop and consider every detail. There's a lot of things I'm uncertain about and know are going to change. There's things I'm letting drop with the intention to pick them up later and tie everything together. Right now I just want to prove to myself that I can get through this, that I can actually finish something I've started. Finishing is always the hardest, scariest part for me. When I first started writing short stories I would do just that, start and not finish. But after actually finishing several stories I had proved to myself that I could finish something and that gave me the confidence to keep trying. I could always go back, read something I'd written and say to myself, "See? You did it before. Surely you can do it again."

Writing a novel, though, is so different from writing a short story. I keep wanting to say to myself at odd moments, "Writing a novel is HARD" which makes me feel awfully ashamed. Of course, it's hard. Who on earth would expect such a thing to be easy? But I guess what I mean is that it is hard in so many ways I never expected. It's hard holding so many people, places, senses, plots and sublots inside of me at the same time. It's hard to remember everything and figure out if I'm saying too much or too little. It's hard to get a sense of pacing. It's hard to keep characters consistent and yet keep the plot from being monotonous. Oh it is so hard! But I cannot wait to finish it and start revisions because then I can actually focus on each of these things and go over it and over it until it is better! Wish me luck!

Mary Kole from Andrea Brown Literary Agency is doing a query contest on her Kidlit blog. Send her your YA, MG or picture book queries by tomorrow!

Kidlit Contest

I'm terribly behind in everyone's livejournals right now and I apologize for that. I'm trying to catch up on other projects.

However, my dad just got another great review from the Sacramento Book Review so I thought I would post it here!
***
The Azores is an archipelago hundreds of miles west of the coast of Portugal, located in the mid-Atlantic. It is a relatively unknown (or unexploited) area that is not often discussed in the media-or in literature. This will change, however, if Darrell Kastin and the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth’s Center for Portuguese Studies and Culture has any say. Kastin, who descends from Azores natives, has used his knowledge of the islands, their culture and their history to weave, in The Undiscovered Island, a skillful tapestry of myth, history and personal revelation that is nothing short of fascinating.

The story focuses on Julia Castro, who travels to the Azores from her home in California to seek out her father, who has mysteriously gone missing. Through her search for him, Julia encounters legends and superstitions that pervade the islands, colorful locals, local history and historical fantasy, and the magic of her roots and of herself. What Kastin has done with The Undiscovered Island is bring all of the color and quirk of this beautiful and under-appreciated area to the world’s attention-and we should thank him for that.

Reviewed by Ashley McCall

I am currently behind on everything, including livejournal and emails thanks to being incapacitated by random bouts of nausea. So annoying. Anyway, we finally got our latest demos mixed and there are now five new songs on my myspace.

www.myspace.com/shawnalenore

The new songs are :

I am of Ireland (Lyrics by Yeats, music by Darrell Kastin)

Amar (Lyrics by Florbela Espanca, music by Darrell Kastin)

O Maior Bem (Lyrics by Florbela Espanca, music by Darrell Kastin)

Caravelas (Lyrics by Florbela Espanca, music by Darrell Kastin)

Voz Que Se Cala (Lyrics by Florbela Espanca, music by Darrell Kastin)

These songs also feature Darrell Kastin on piano and guitar, and Chris Matthews on the cajon.

Sadly I couldn't upload all the songs we recorded, but I hope this will give you a good idea of what we're doing.

Please let me know what you think of the songs if any of you get a chance. There's some other Yeats songs we haven't recorded yet that are so beautiful and I can't wait till I can share them with people.

Also, I keep meaning to post that I wrote another song recently, after trying to squash the inclination for months (It's not that I don't want to write songs, it's that I have no time as it is). I was washing dishes and all of a sudden I needed to write down this melody or it was going to disappear and much panic and obsession ensued. Writing songs is frustrating for me because I'm not really good at playing any instruments other than my own voice, lol. So I did a little research and found that there's a cheap and simple version of Finale that you can download and use to write songs. It's not as magnificent and flexible as my father's $600 Sibellius, but beggars can't be choosers. It's hard work, but so much fun and I suspect will result in more procrastination, lol. Now I just need to figure out how to use Garageband.

It is official! I have now proclaimed myself my dad's publicist! Mwahahahaha! I have such plans. I only hope I am not thwarted in realizing them. As my first publicistic (is that actually a word?) action I have signed my father up for Goodreads which--can you believe it?-- I had never heard of before. You should all check it out. It seems like a brilliant resource for writers, both published and unpublished, as well as a great place to pimp one's books. You can see his profile here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3088448.Darrell_Kastin

If you're already on Goodreads then please, by all means, friend him. If not you can head over there to read an excerpt from his novel, The Undiscovered Island.

I will try to post more updates soon, as I have many things to talk about, but, as usual, I am behind in everything at the moment.

It seems like every few months or so I go through a period of time wherein I freak out about being sick and not having a job. I try to talk myself out of it and be rational, but it's difficult not to worry about such things. I have been doing this long enough now that I suspect my friends and family are going to start getting annoyed with me. I went through another period of this in the past month. I agonized and worried. I tossed and turned. I considered a number of ridiculous schemes. I even went downtown to sing and made $.50. But to no avail.

The problem is this. I'm sick, but I have no idea how long I'm going to be sick for. It's been two years and a month since I started treatment for Lyme disease. In a lot of ways I really am better, but in a lot of ways I'm not. I spent most of this month with more back and joint pain than I've experienced in a while. But what complicates my life the most is that my health is constantly fluctuating. For example, I may be relatively fine for a few days if I don't push myself and then spend the rest of that week nauseous every morning or in a great deal of pain. There's nothing I can do about it. It's just the way my life is now. But even so, I really am much better than I was before. I'm just not sure that's saying much. Anyway, in terms of getting a job I'm honestly terrified of making that commitment because I know I couldn't just call in sick all the time, but there would be a lot of days in which I wouldn't be able to bring myself to go to work because of my body.

I told myself originally that I wouldn't get a job until I was better. But at the time I thought I would be better in six months. Two years later and I'm asking myself, what if I never get better? What if this is just my life and I have to live with it? What then? And then I start to feel guilty. Because, after all, I could be so much worse. I could be bedridden, but I'm not. I start to feel lazy, selfish and I start worrying that everyone around me sees me the same way. I worry that others will look at me and think "she looks healthy and she says she's getting better so why isn't she getting a job?" I think this every time someone asks me--and they have--why I'm not better yet or what I'm doing with my life.

The worst thing about being asked what I'm doing with my life by an older adult who knows that I'm sick is that it makes me feel like I have to prove something to them. I immediately go into defensive mode. The worst thing about being asked that by an older adult who doesn't know I'm sick is that when I tell them that I'm unemployed and have Lyme Disease it immediately changes their perception of me. I hate that. But the most frustrating situation is when someone who knows that I'm sick and is sick themselves asks me why I don't have a job. It's as though our society is completely incapable of comprehending a situation in which working is not only unfeasible but probably not a very good idea.

When I'm not reacting in fear and when I'm being honest with myself I know that getting a job right now would probably be very stupid. First of all, we are in the midst of an economic meltdown. I know a number of very skilled, healthy people who can't find jobs right now. I don't really think I have a chance. Also, there were hardly any jobs in Ashland besides working in a restaurant or as a housekeeper in a hotel before the recession. Now there are even less. And anyway, having worked in a restaurant and knowing several people who worked as a housekeeper in a hotel I think I can safely say that I would not be physically capable of doing those jobs.

The heart of the situation is that I spend a great deal of my time being creative and I feel guilty for doing that. I mean, God forbid I try to do something fun and positive in the face of this illness. But I do feel bad relying on my parents. I hate that they're spending thousands of dollars trying to get me better with no guarantee that it's even going to work. But, on the other hand, art is the only thing I can do. If my throat hurts I can write. If my hands hurt I can sing. If I'm really depressed I can bake something and try not to eat it. If I can't do anything I can read a book. But more than that, art is the only thing that makes sense to me anymore. I can rely on it in a way that I can't rely on my body. I can escape into it when I can't deal with reality. It's really the only thing holding me together.

My stepmom says that I should see this time as an opportunity. A chance to work on my poetry and stories and music and translation. She said as long as they don't mind me being here and not working I shouldn't worry about what other people think. So I'm trying. I think in the end I'm doing the right thing. I know if I were looking at someone else in my position I would tell them to keep doing what I've been doing, to stop worrying about getting a job. If I spent all the time I spend agonizing and researching jobs and careers on writing instead, I would get a lot more done and probably feel less miserable.

I don't know what's going to happen in the next few years. And I am completely okay with that. I'm just going to take it one step at a time. If I get better and there happens to be a job in the area that I can do, then I will get a job. But if not, I'll do this MFA program and do everything in my power to improve my writing and my singing and see where those things carry me. And who knows, maybe something will come of it and I won't have to worry so much about money. The truth is, that even without a job I have way too much to do. And not all of its art. Some of it's helping my parents. Some of it's trying to clear up this house of stuff. And some of it's helping my dad publicize his book.

Perhaps the next time someone asks me what I'm doing with my life I should just say that I am my dad's secretary and publicist. But perhaps I should really tell them that I'm a writer and a singer. After all, they don't have to know that I'm not making any money :p

Wow, The Ghost Whisper actually featured an older lesbian couple yesterday and Obama gave an awesome speech in defense of gay rights. I know I shouldn't really get excited until he does something more than just talk, but there is something awe-inspiring about seeing one's president give such a rousing speech about GLBTs and their families. Especially after eight years of Bush. I can't wait to watch the religious right flip out. Overall a pretty good weekend so far.

I just finished reading my dad's novel so I thought I would post a review of it here and on Amazon.

"The Undiscovered Island" by Darrell Kastin is a rich tapestry of Portuguese history and poetry, myth and legend, philosophical musings on art and love, and good old-fashioned mystery.

Set on the Azores Islands, "The Undiscovered Island" tells the story of Julia Castro, a young Azorean-American who returns to the islands of her ancestors in search of her father, Sebastiao, who has disappeared amid a number of mysterious circumstances; a ghost ship is seen out at sea, a luminescent woman is said to walk the shores, leading men to their deaths, the islands are rocked by earthquakes and a new island rises from the sea.

Julia soon finds herself reading through her father's papers -- historical records chronicling the many misadventures and tragedies experienced by her ancestors, as well as strange stories about a mysterious island said to be governed by the fates. As she attempts to decipher the clues her father may have left her as to his whereabouts, the lines between fantasy and reality blur in a dramatic conclusion in which the past and the present collide.

Part homage to the magic of the Azores and part love story, this book is sure to appeal to those readers of Marquez, Borges and Zafon who enjoy evocative prose and layered stories that invite multiple readings.

The book can be bought here: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1933227230/ref=cm_pdp_rev_itm_img_1

or ordered through Small Press Distribution at your local bookstore.

I've been reading through my dad's novel, which is slow going because it's like eating a hearty meal. You want to savor everything. And I came across this beautiful passage that I thought I would post here, and which, in my opinion, epitomizes this book.

"'Life is the dream we spin as we grow, constructing illusions around us, illusions which separate us from others, which tie us to still others, illusions upon which we stand, and which represent who and what we are... What is reality when compared to the illusions that defy and overleap our limitations, our fears, illusions which can lift us up from the dark, the lower regions wherein we cheapen and shortchange ourselves? Anti-illusion is anti-art, a return to the base, to the superstitious, the primitive, to fear. It is, in effect anti-love -- life pared down to the level of pure instinct -- while love is our greatest artistic expression, as both the ultimate object and the medium.

"How desperate our need is for the delusions and fantasies by which we sustain our hopes and dreams; no matter that these fancies may not represent reality, or exist in the ' real world,' for there is a separate reality of the heart, mind, spirit and soul, which without these wisps and figments can only wither. One's life should be a search for the highest of these ideals, the unmappable regions of love, the imagination, the impossible.

"I make up a story, amend the facts I find in recollection, in order to portray an essence, a truth that can't be found and stated in any other way... what is reality stripped bare? Facts, numbers, dates, cold and dead to life, like a barren rock, a grain of sand, with no perspective of human relationship, or even of how that grain of sand relates to a beach, the sea, or an island; a life without poetry, without art. It is better to reach for the impossible, to fight against entropy and limitations; better to know we are composed of star-stuff, of the same planet we inhabit, of all life therein, that we in fact contain all the universe within ourselves. Imagination alone can make us what we may become.'"

we've been trying to brainstorm ways that we can promote this book so that more people read it, or, at the very least, know of its existence. The irony is my dad's been spending more money just trying to get the book out to people than he's ever going to get from the publisher.

It makes me sad because when I read this book I truly believe that he's written something miraculous, a great work. I know artists of all stripes love to remind themselves and each other that great work is rarely appreciated during the lifetime of the artist who creates it, and I wonder if that is to be the fate of this book. I wonder if I, in my autumn years, will live to see this book garner the attention it deserves. How odd that would be, and how bittersweet, and how ironic.

A new poetry book by hooks_and_books aka Joshua Gage and renegade_zombie aka J. E. Stanley called "Intrinsic Night" is now available from Sam's Dot publishing. It's a collection of minimalist poems with a "genre" bent. For those of you who don't know, Joshua has been critiquing all the poems nominated for the Rhysling Awards which is an awe-inspiring task, so you should all show him some extra love by buying a copy and spreading the word. You can pre-order the book here: http://genremall.livejournal.com/50645.html

Do not ever, under any circumstances try to rhyme something with the word plague. Just don't do it. The best you can hope for is "vague" and good luck trying to fit "vague" and "plague" into a sentence.

Critiques, though sometimes scary, are also useful, but only to a point. I think I've resisted seeking out critiques from people other than friends and family because, well, my parents and many of my friends are writers so I've never felt starved for writerly input, but also because my writing is extremely important to me and I cannot stomach useless critiques. I can deal with comments on technique. If the rhyme is off I can fix it. If characters on undeveloped I can develop them. If something is done poorly I can always try to make it better. What I can't deal with is when people completely miss the point of what I am trying to do, and after my experiences in Smith College's poetry writing class, I admit that I am terrified of anything that goes near that sort of critique. I've had some great experiences using the SCBWI message boards (yes, I am officially a member. Just got my member card today. There go all my savings...). The people there have been so wonderfully helpful. However, when one person absolutely loves a certain line and another person really hates it you just have to throw your hands up in despair. I never realized there could be so many varied responses to one piece of work.

Sometimes you just have to trust yourself. In light of all the different opinions on SCBWI's message boards I sought out a professional picture book author who critiques books (I know, I know, there goes the rest of my savings). She read the poem and wrote back with her reflections and an idea of what needs work. She hasn't done the critique yet, that was just an assessment. But she said one thing that sent me spiraling into several days of hopelessness. She said she as concerned about what age I could market the book to because it was too dark, graphic and cryptic for 5-8 year olds. This really shook me because, as I stated earlier, I can fix the rhyme and meter. I can tighten up the plot. But I can't change the story I wanted to tell. I hope that makes sense. In the end, it made me realize that that is all I can ever hope to do as a writer, be true to the story I wanted to tell. Maybe she's right. Maybe kids won't get it. Maybe editors won't ever give it a chance. But I won't know unless I try.

Apparently, I was a really weird kid. Aside from the previous criticisms a number of people felt that most kids wouldn't know who Edgar Allen Poe is so I might want to take out the reference to him in the poem. All of this combined with the previous comments made me think about my own childhood. My father read me the Rime of the Ancient Mariner when I was a week old. He also read me the Raven and Dostoevski. Apparently, I loved Dostoevski. When I was five I had memorized my little abridged version of The Wizard of Oz. I read the original a few years later. I was reading Shakespeare when I was six. I'm not saying I understood all of it perfectly. But I read it and enjoyed it. When I was seven I wanted more than anything in the world to run away with Peter Pan. When I was in middle school I carried Brian Froud's Faeries around with me to school. I guess what I'm trying to say is that sure there are things kids have difficulty with, can't conceptualize, but if we don't expose them to difficult things they are never going to learn. They may not know who EAP is but what's wrong with their parents explaining to them, in a non-scary fashion, so that they understand. I'm not saying this to somehow excuse my work, by the way. It very well may not be for children, I'm just questioning the assumptions that a number of people seem to have about children, what they are capable of and what they should be exposed to. And at the very least I think it should be recognized that there are children who are/were weird like me, and who is going to write picture books for them?

One really ought to read picture books before they go and write one. I know, I know. This is the number one mistake of all potential PB writers, but in my defense when I wrote the first draft I was terribly sick at the time and death seemed to be looming out of the corners of my dorm room. The picture book aspect of the poem was an afterthought. I am going to make a trip to the library and read every PB I can find once I finish my dad's book. However, I will also say in my defense that I have found several on Amazon that look to me to be way too graphic and adult for children. For example, everything by Gris Grimly and some of Adam Rex's books. I think Gris Grimly is going to be my new best friend. Not to mention Where the Wild Things Are which people thought was way too dark for children when it was published. Not that I'm comparing myself to Maurice Sendak. Just saying.

Well, I think that's it for now. I will continue learning, I guess. I am taking a break from the novel in my effort to make this picture book as awesome as possible. I suppose I may have to let go of it in the end and accept that nothing will come of it. But only after I send it out and see what happens ;)

An interview of my dad about his novel "The Undiscovered Island" came out today in the Daily Tidings! Yay! You can read the article here: http://www.dailytidings.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090918/NEWS02/909180318/-1/ENTERTAIN

And they did a little video of us performing one of the Portuguese songs (Conto de Fadas or Fairy Tale in English) which you can check out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OojOkaIxDd0&feature=player_embedded

I apologize for the poor sound quality at the beginning of the recording. Someone opened and closed a door right as I started singing so that got recorded as well. Oh well.

Enjoy!

I am going to tell you all a story.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who traveled to the lands of her ancestors for the first time since she was two years old. She had no memory of the islands and so didn't know what to expect, thus the journey was very hard. She braved the world's smallest sidewalks and streets full of wild drivers. She endured the stares of strange men who acted as though they had never seen a woman before and who spoke in a language she didn't understand. She stood on the rim of vast volcanic craters and bathed in the sea where sirens were said to have seduced many a sailor. She battled giant insects.

But one day she followed her parents to a place that had belonged to the ancestors of her stepmother (who was not at all wicked) and she fell in love. A guide, a humble farmer, led them through an old stone gateway and up a long winding path lined with walls that were slowly collapsing over time. As they climbed the hill, which was shrouded in trees, they came to a second stone gateway, more impressive than the first, and which seemed among the trees like some remnant of an ancient race. Next, they came to a small overgrown coach house, barely recognizable. And finally, they arrived at the great stone steps leading up to a house that seemed to have been sleeping for a hundred years. It had been abandoned twenty years ago but before that it had been a beautiful 18th century English style manor house. Now it had no roof. The walls, once a beautiful rose color, were faded and covered in Mulberry bushes. And over the years some of the Islanders had snuck onto the property and stolen the stone steps.

The house called to her. The bracken and the land called to her. And whatever spirits there are on that, the oldest of the nine islands, reached out to her. So she wished a powerful wish that somehow, no matter what it took, they would be able to save the house and wake it from its slumbers. But, of course, no one could grant her wish for the house was not for sale and so they left. But they never forgot.

Years later, when they no longer thought of such impossible things the girl's stepmother was looking through the paper when she noticed the house was for sale. But, unfortunately, the price was too high and there was no way they could even think of buying it. Time passed. Rich Europeans came to the house wanting to build a golf course or looking for some way to make money. But none of them committed to buying it. Then, one day, the price had gone so far down that it seemed suddenly quite possible to buy the house for themselves.

With growing excitement, the girl consulted the cards. She asked, "What will happen if we get this house and what will happen if we do not." The answer was clear. Both paths were good, but only one was fated. The cards said without a doubt that they were fated to get the house. So when life grew more complicated, when it seemed over the course of a year that there was no way they could afford such a project, the girl heard a voice whispering over and over again, "It is fated".

At last, they returned to the islands once more, without a hope of ever getting the house they dreamed of. The property taxes were too high, the house would need water, sewage, and electricity and they had no idea whether or not they could get funding from the government. So they looked at other houses, never truly satisfied with what they saw.

After a few weeks they decided to return once more to the house. Once more they called the farmer to lead them up the pathway only this time they were not alone. The owners of the house, the heirs, had come the very same day from the continent to walk through the ruins. It seemed as though fate had called them at the very same moment. They shared stories of the house's grandeur and beauty when it had been awake and full of life. And the girl's parents made it clear they were interested in restoring the house to its former glory. Once more they were reminded, in walking through the forest, of the magic that hummed in the land and they resolved to try to buy it.

They talked to the government. They talked to an architect. They discovered that the government would pay for a third of the cost of restoring it. And so they made an offer, lower than the asking price, fearful the owners would never accept it. But, reader, they did. And now they are the proud owners of seventeen acres of land and a ruined mansion on a hill in the Azores.

***
Perhaps I should change all my profiles to say "dreaming of her quinta on one of the nine islands of the Azores :) And if you don't believe me, here are some pictures to prove it's true!

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It looks li http://wishuponahero.com/wishes/?id=353905

This is a message from upstart_crow about a friend of hers. Please try to help out if you can. Like she says even a few dollars helps. I know it's hard sometimes to truly conceive of what life is like with an illness like Lyme Disease, but I can assure you that it's hard enough without having to worry about how you are going to pay medical bills or stay in your home. No one should have to go through this. I know a lot of people reading this are poor college students and don't have a lot of money, but most of us are not in danger of being on the streets so I figure we can all afford a few dollars. Thanks for you help!

***
My friend papel_luna has a lot of health problems, including Lyme's disease and a ton of mental health issues, and she is just recovering from chemotherapy. She lives with her sister, and thanks to medical issues and the terrible economy, she and her sister are thousands of dollars behind on their rent. And if they don't pay in full by Monday, they're going to be homeless.

Cursed be the fool who invented rhyming picture books! This is hard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh Dr. Seuss, you make it look so easy, but you lie, you lie!

So before I left I said that I would try to write three pages of my novel every day of my trip. Miraculously, I managed to do just that and more for the first two weeks, even after being on a plane for hours. Some days I wrote only a page, but some days I wrote five so it all evened out in the end. Once I got into the rhythm of writing certain amount everyday it was pretty easy to stick to it. I even managed to write in odd places like in the airport or at the dinner table. But halfway through our trip I realized I wasn't getting much else done, like writing postcards and letters, and I got distracted by writing poetry, so at that point my plan fell apart. I'm going to try again though now that I'm back home. So far I've got 25,300 words. Even if they're all crap I'm still pleased with myself because this is officially the most I have ever written of any one thing.

I have come to the conclusion that writing a novel is damn hard. Of course, anyone could have told me that. What I mean is that it is much harder than I ever could have imagined. I thought that writing a novel would be like writing a long short story, but there is so much more to it than that. You have to follow all these different plot lines and there are so many more characters to describe and keep track of. I find myself panicking that there are too many characters, that it is getting too long, that I am never going to manage to pull this off, etc, etc. The only thing keeping me from despair is the thought that if I just write the book I need to write and don't worry about how long it gets or if there are too many characters. If I can just finish the rough draft I can go back and cut things and rework everything to make it better. I've already had to do that with the beginning because the short story originally started with a focus on a minor character instead of one of the two protagonists. As I was writing the novel it just felt more and more wrong to do it that way. But when something has been a certain way for years it's awfully hard to change it. I'm still working on that at the moment. I have to learn to let go.

I also broke down and joined the SCBWI which I feel guilty about because it was an awful lot of money for me. I think it will be good for me, though. I posted my picture book The Unfortunate Lenore on their manuscript critique message board and have gotten a lot of good advice and support from people. Unfortunately, they all hated my scattered rhyme and meter so I am going to have to tear it to pieces and hope I can put it back together in standard meter without destroying it utterly. I/m actually pretty annoyed about it because a number of people read that piece and never commented on that aspect of it and being that these people are also writers and not just friends and family members they really should have known better. Oh well, I'm just dreading having to do this because it is beyond daunting. And somewhere in the back of my mind I keep wondering if it really is that much of a problem. It's so hard to know where to draw the line with critiques.

This is the first review of my dad's book so far. It was published in the Easy Reader and is a pretty damn good review, if you ask me :)

The Undiscovered Island, by Darrell Kastin (Portuguese in the Americas Series, 411 pp., $25 paper)
by JB Kennedy
Published August 13, 2009

“What a great read!” – Gregory Rabassa.
Rabassa concluded his remarks about this novel with those words. Unequivocal hype. To a passionate skeptic hype is both an abomination, and a challenge. But now having read The Undiscovered Island, this skeptic recognizes that this is one of those exceptionally rare instances in which hype is an exercise in understatement.
Rabassa, whose acuity and talent have long been admired, also used the word “epic” in his remarks. A reading makes one realize that his use of “epic” was neither careless nor delusional. Indeed, I want to be on record as being among the first to recognize this book as a seminal work in 21st Century literature. It is certain to inspire a host of doctoral dissertations. And will be returned to periodically and earnestly by literary critics, as well as language scholars. And it will be mined by professors of Metaphysics in perpetuity.
This is a missing-person mystery set in the Azores. The Azores, the islands themselves perform prominently in the story. They, just as the convincingly drawn human characters, compel and reward the reader’s attention. Sebastiao de Canto e Castro has disappeared while in the Azores. His daughter, Julia Castro, arrives to search for him. Later, her brother Antonio joins her in the search.
This is the blueprint Kastin has used to erect an edifice that is both authentically enduring, and richly ornate. As Julia’s search for her missing father becomes increasingly complex and frustrating, the suspense keeps pace. But (“epic” again), this narrative shares with the early epics the characteristic of being a story eclipsed by its telling.
Kastin is attentive to the interactions of myth and reality; of legends and the sometimes mysterious imperatives of genealogy. He is sensitive to the effects that unimaginable natural phenomena can have on the imagination. And he is open to the realization of hallucination as a mode of perception. Plus, he exhibits a recognition of the power of Poetry to illuminate and motivate as well as exhilarate. (A luminous incidental is the generous exposure to rapturous Portuguese Poetry). The poems perform as an active adrenal gland in the body of the text.)
In addition, observations, speculations and divinations about the Azores by historical and literary figures throughout 700 years serve to focus and energize the narrative; and perform as overtures to apparitions.
Finally, a fascinating component is Julia’s finding, on various occasions, of fragments of her father’s writings. She scrutinizes them in search of clues to his whereabouts. This reader, for one, would like to see more of the work of this shadowy, enigmatic wise man. Sequel? ER

I'm not sure where to start. My trip was really good, much better than the last time I was there six years ago after I had just graduated from high school. I'm not sure if it was easier this time because the Azores has changed a lot in six year or if it's because I have changed a lot. Probably a little of both. I think I'm just going through all of this in bits and pieces, so bear with me.

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