remind me why i'm reading this again?

I dislike not finishing books. In fact, I dislike it so much that I make a point of always finishing books--well, except this one book that had some... well, less-than-desirable content. And also Water Wars. Goodness gracious, that book was so dull.

Which, incidentally, leads me to what is possibly the only reason that I would ever not finish a book. I grew up with the classics. I have fond memories of learning to read curled up with Curious George and Beatrix Potter, then moving on to the original Winnie the Pooh books, The Boxcar Children, and the Swiss Family Robinson. The Little Princess, a hearty dose of Nancy Drew, and when I was ten, Moby Dick and many of Jules Verne's books; that's what I cut my literary teeth on.

So when I read a book, I expect to live up to those books in terms of their believability and characters. The Little Princess is a classic for a reason: it's well written and it also has some of the best characters. I still remember them, and periodically go back to the world of a dreaming Sara, a fascinated Rebecca, and the dastardly deeds of Miss Minchin. I've not picked up a Boxcar Children book in forever, but I lived those adventures, and those characters will always form part of what I think of when I hear the word "detective" (or train). Jules Verne will always be one of my favorite authors, mostly because he managed to create beautiful stories that were long enough for me to not just blow through them, but also because his characters and his fictional scenarios fit each other so well.

And then there are those...other books. The ones that have no character development and whose plot seems to be hanging on nothing but a thread of self-importance. The pacing is off, to the point where the reader alternately feels as if she is slogging through quicksand or being pushed through the pages by a bullet train. These are the books that we cringe through, hoping that somehow, it'll get better at the end (I also try to imagine myself writing something spectacularly wonderful and showing up the author. Or just banishing them for their crimes against literature, but that's another post entirely).

They are books that, rather than describing things, tell you in the most boring voice imaginable, exactly what happened and when and where and what the character's hair and nails and teeth looked like when it happened because we all care a lot about how our Elf princess looked when she killed that fellow. Within these books seem to be the most amazing things possible--a person jumping around a circle of men killing them with nothing but her knees as she jumps from shoulder-to-shoulder, or the established rules of vampire lore suddenly coming undone...even within the book's own universe, or there suddenly being a bomb wielded by terrorists who had never been heard of before, but it's okay, because the book is only fifty pages long so far.

(In case you're wondering, I'm totally going to point fingers and name names. I just talked about the Inheritance Cycle, Twilight, and Water Wars respectively. Though the second is kind of a stretch. Stephenie Meyer tries, at least.)

So, dear future authors and current authors and authors that have been, 

Just remember that listing things is not an acceptable replacement for actual description that brings your characters and your world to life. Making a long list about all the things that would logically mean your five-foot-tall herbalist would lose against your six-foot-tall trained warrior, is not the same as describing to us the things that make it so...especially not when you've just done that. In that vein, repetition doesn't mean I'll get your point better, or suddenly realize that your characters are, indeed, traveling across a desert where there is no water and hasn't been water for the past century. Pointless repetition just makes me want to put your book down. Nor will repetition of the same words make me see your political point. It's already been drummed into my head during the first 800 pages; I don't need 80 more that are nothing but a radio speech to make me realize that you're trying to make a point. 

Also, please kindly remember that gory wounds are not the time nor place to make up for your lack of description elsewhere. No matter what you may think, they will not make your battle scenes any more gripping, nor will they make your whiny characters any more lovable. Gory wounds that are described in stomach-turning detail just make me want to put your book up and go read something less nauseating. If I wanted to read about that, I would have picked up an anatomy text book. 

In closing, dear author,  I would greatly appreciate it if you would get to the point instead of leading me on a wild-goose-chase for some semblance of a plot. 

With much love,

- Kyla Denae

i'm sure those people over there can help

What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? can faith save him? If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, And one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit? Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone. - James 2:14-17

I have heard this verse taught many times. We're supposed to take care of the poor, those who are unable to take care of themselves, etc. It's taken by the left to mean that we're supposed to steal from people to give their money to other people. It's taken by more conservative members of the Christian community to mean we're supposed to send aid to other countries, to places where people are starving and, maybe--in a pinch--to that homeless shelter down the street. In whatever way this idea manifests itself, there's always one thing that is central to it: we are, in some way, supposed to care for the less fortunate members of our own community.

It is odd, however, that the execution of this idea doesn't seem to extend to those people that are truly our brothers and sisters... that is, those people who sit next to us in the church pew, drift their way through our buildings, and then return to their homes. Many times, we're none the wiser about what our fellow Christians are going through. And, if we are, there's this sort of conversation:

"Sally and her husband are going through some real trouble. Joe's gonna have to have some surgery. They really need prayer."
"They have those three kids, don't they? And a baby on the way?""Yeah. But I heard that there's a new government program; if they apply for it, they can get medical assistance, which should help them feed those kids."
"I'll pray they'll be able to get into that program, then. It would be a shame if they had to sell their house or ended up being homeless!"

I have seriously heard exchanges almost exactly like this one many times in churches, between members of a Christian community. There seems to be this idea in America that, if we fall on hard times, the government will take care of us. After all, what are we paying taxes for? Surely the government can help out!

And so, to all intents and purposes, we look at these brothers and sisters of ours and say, "hey, you know--I heard you were on hard times. I'm going to pray for you. Go on home now, and you stay warm and fed, alright?" And then we mosey on home to our Sunday afternoon dinners and our comfortable lives where, while there might be occasional hiccups in the smooth passage, we don't have to worry about breakfast tomorrow morning.

But aren't we sort of missing the point? Aren't we completely ignoring what James told us to do? Yes, there are many great charity programs that are run by churches. They feed a lot of people, both in America and out. Money is being constantly sent overseas to buy cornmeal, rice, and even meat for small schools and churches in African and Asian countries. Some of those people, yes, are our brothers and sisters in Christ. But we're ignoring the problems right under our noses. We're so busy with feeling spiritual--setting our Facebook status to a really great Bible verse, trying to raise awareness for our newest pet cause in Africa, campaigning to make abortion illegal--that we forget that without our faith manifesting itself into the physical realm, it means absolutely nothing.

There's a saying I once heard. I don't know who originally said it. It's probably as old as Christianity itself. But it's simply this: If you can't be a missionary at home first, you're not going to be an effective missionary elsewhere.

Until you start taking care of things close to home, you can't be an effective crusader for women's rights in Afghanistan. Until you are willing to help out a family in need that goes to your church, you can't be an effective volunteer at a food bank. Until you are actively living out the things you say you believe, it doesn't count for anything. God doesn't care about rhetoric; he cares about action.

Can it be difficult, thinking about making sacrifices for our fellow brothers and sisters in Christ? Of course. Nobody ever said it would be easy. I'm sure that the people who were reading James' letter thought he was crazy. "What? He's saying we should all chip in like those crazy Christians in Antioch and have everything common and help each other? What about the poor people around us? What about them? Surely they can go find help elsewhere--they have families, support systems!"

But they didn't, and they don't. The Church was designed to be a support system. When the author of Acts talked about how the early Christians had "all things common", that's what he meant. He meant that they all chipped in when something was needed. But we've become so focused on our own needs, our wants, the things that are immediately in front of us, that all we can say to Christians who need help is, "Well, that sucks. I'm pretty sure the government runs a fund for losers like you...good luck. Go eat and keep your house warm this winter."

If a brother or sister...

- Kyla Denae

92 days. $1500.

Well.

I once again find myself in the position of needing to raise a lot of money in a very short space of time. Pray for me. Wish me luck. Whatever. Allons-y.

- Kyla Denae

a weekend trip, part 2

The Carlsbad Caverns are amazing. They show that God cares just as much about the underside of the earth as he does about the surface, that everything was thought of and formed, that he wanted every bit of his creation to be beautiful and wonderful so he could look down at it and unequivocally say, with a smile on his face and well-earned pride in his heart, "It is good."

Unfortunately, I had no camera with me on this trip, and I've not yet managed to snag my dad's phone so I can filch his, so this shall be sadly picture-free. Someday I'll go back to the caverns with a really awesome camera and shall upload many pictures to make up for it. Instead of taking pictures, I contented myself with thinking up ways I could incorporate what I saw into my stories. Needless to say, by the time I'd walked ten paces down into the opening of the cave, I'd already figured out how my protagonist in Dark Dawn (my fantasy novel) would be getting to the home of the Dwarves. There's going to be a massive cave mouth and a very steep ramp.

Story inspiration aside, I discovered that fairyland exists (it forms a very large portion of the "Big Room", and is situated conveniently by the Temple to the Sun God, which must be the place said fairies worship), and also marveled at the clearness of the water. It's all filtered through tons of rock; it's so clear it looks as if it's not there.

Once we left the caves (after a two-hour wait for the elevators; only two of them were working and there was a huge line. It moved quickly though, with my sister and I playing rock-paper-scissors-with-a-twist all the way), we drove toward Roswell. Where we stayed the night. And counted aliens. In Roswell, New Mexico, there is a McDonald's that has a UFO parked in it. No joke. Their play area is shaped like a UFO. It's pretty awesome.

The next morning, dad had the bright idea to drive toward the mountains, so we could do something that hadn't been specified. Basically, we drove through a bunch of very craggy, very yellow, very windy mountains and stopped in a small town that looked more like a tourist trap than a town. On the edge of this town there was a small visitors center; we stopped and found that it was a tribute to Billy the Kid, a notorious outlaw or something who roamed New Mexico. My brain wasn't quite working by that point; it was very fuzzy from having to process being sick, sore, and tired, not to mention seven younger children who weren't at all happy about their lack of clean clothes.

Anyway. This small visitor's center was staffed by two dogs and an older lady, plus an older man who might have been her husband or just a lazy park ranger who couldn't be bothered to button his shirt. He was lazing back in a chair behind a table that was, in its turn, behind the desk, when we arrived, gray shirt unbuttoned over a white t-shirt. I think he was drinking a cup of tea. The woman and the dogs were quite pleasant, though the man disappeared halfway through our visit. We wandered through the center, admired some scale models of old pueblos, plus a cross-section of a pueblo great-house, picked up a few brochures, and got back on the (very windy) road.

And we stayed on the road.

And stayed.

And stayed.

And stayed a bit more.

It got pretty windy as we reached the plains again; a huge dust-storm had been kicked up, which understandably wasn't quite comfortable. This was compounded by the fact that everyone was a bit cranky from having been in the care.

And the fact that if we hadn't made a detour into the mountains, we would have been home three hours earlier. Not that any of us were bitter. But still.

The dust was having entirely too much fun, swirling 'round us. When we stopped at a little Allsup's in Nowhere-Land, New Mexico, we were told that it was only supposed to get worse. Also, the power blinked out twice. And there was only one stoplight. It was swinging from a wire that had been suspended from two opposite light poles. For a moment, I had a vision of Cars, and sitting next to the light, peering up at it and insisting every third blink was shorter.

I blame my wild imagination.

Eventually, we got a tailwind and rode it all the way home, only stopping once, in Santa Rosa. I now detest McDonalds, and will until the next time we go on a trip--by which time I will have forgotten how much I hate it and will gladly scarf down whatever I can get my hands on. To be honest, I really don't pay much attention to what I shove into my mouth. I should probably work on that.

So, after a whirlwind trip that began at 11 am on Friday and ended at 8 pm on Sunday, we arrived back home, thankful to sleep in our own beds. The end.

- Kyla Denae

i will live like moses

Or: How to Avoid a Job In Six Easy Steps.

Step 1- state your intention to be an actual writer
Step 2- make some movement toward that goal
Step 3- realize you're not going to make it
Step 4- state your backup plan of becoming an international hitchhiker
Step 5- stubbornly respond to all concerns with "I will live like Moses"
Step 6- hide in your room and write

- Kyla Denae