The Adventures Of Indiana

Meet Indiana, I hope you will love her as much as I do.

Indiana wished she were a boy.  Her father had wanted a boy.  He had even named her after the roughest, toughest character ever to grace the silver screen, Indiana Jones.  She tried very hard to live up to her namesake.  She fought with the meanest boys in her fifth grade class, performed daring acts of rescue to save the neighbor’s cat from a fate worse than death (Angus the doberman), and she scoured the countryside excavating for artifacts.

Was her father proud of her?  She didn’t know, he never said.  Mostly he just said things like, “Stay out of my office and don’t touch the books.”  Indiana tried to obey, but that was difficult even on her best days.  Her favorite past-time was sitting under the window air-conditioning unit in his office, reading a forbidden book and smoking one of his cigars.

One book in particular always piqued her interest, Ancient Archaeology 2050-750 B.C.  It was Indiana’s habit to sneak it from her father’s study and curl up in bed with it.  One night she drifted off to sleep reading a chapter on the Philistine Empire. 

A tickle brushed Indiana’s cheek and she woke with a start.  Dark, dry vines spilled from between the pages.  Touching a leaf, Indiana found herself squinting against a desert sun.  She pulled the bill of her hat forward and grasped the whip that hung from her side.  Angry shouts rang out.  She realized her left hand was clutching a stone.  Pausing briefly to examine it, she noted its smooth texture.  Obviously an ancient rock the blemishes had been worn down from use. Instinctively she knew it was one of the stones of David.  Clutching the artifact, Indiana turned her face into the desert wind and ran.  She ran fast.  She ran like Billy Simpkons running for the bathroom the day beef stroganoff was on the school lunch menu.   

Men pursued her into the city.  Scampering between the stalls, she turned right and then left.  Hopping over a pottery stand she rounded the corner coming face to face with a giant.  A balding gargantuan, he stood like a mountain and blocked her escape.  The villain grasped Indiana by the collar and yanked her up into his face.  His fetid breath caused her to gag.   She kicked out and slammed her boot into his stomach.  Wriggling free from his grip she dropped to the ground and ducked between his legs.  Before he had a chance to grab her a second time, she bolted down a back alley.  Shots pinged off the walls as she stumbled briefly to her knee.  No time to waste, up again she ran.  Indiana felt she had never ran so fast in her whole life.  Endlessly twisting and turning, bullets flying past her head.  She sucked the air into her lungs, heaving from exhaustion.  Her mind stayed focused, she would not give up.  Indiana was determined to live long enough to place the stone in her father’s hand.

The bullets forced her back into the vendor filled streets.  Running past a carpet stand, Indiana’s feet became entangled.  She fell hard on her face and the stone leapt from her hand.  She watched defeated as it rolled out of her sight into the busy street.  Swearing, Indiana pushed herself up off of the floor, slammed the book shut and climbed back under her covers.   

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

The diagnosis confirmed, fury wells up and bursts forth, profane and ugly.  I heave the first object my fingers can grasp.  The words of Dylan Thomas reverberate through me, Do not go gentle into that good night.
He is a researcher, accountant, writer and teacher.  As children, he would pass the time with my brother and I, creating challenges to sharpen our observation skills and quicken our minds.  My young eyes looked up at my father and called him genius.
Now sitting at the dinner table, he turns to me and begins to give instructions.  Things that need taken care of, because this time next year he may not remember.  I want to throw up my hand and yell Stop!  Rage, rage against the dying of  the light.  Instead, I numbly nod my head and agree to his plans.  I sense the fight has gone out of him.  There is a certain resignation in his voice, an acceptance of the inevitable.  Does he notice the expression on my face?  I don't know, but then he tells me how blessed he is.  He speaks of the plans God has for him and the road he has walked with his Savior.  And he smiles.  And you, my father, there on the sad height, Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
It is then I understand.  He is fighting the good fight.  He has not lost his faith, or allowed himself to drown in self pity.  He is not going gently.  He is relying on a faithful God.  A God who will sustain him and keep him.  A God who will comfort and strengthen his family.  In my anger I had forgotten.  This is not a fight we fight alone.  This is a fight we fight with a warrior who has never lost a battle and always wins the war.  With Him we never go gently into that good night.

Well here goes.  I love to write, but just because you love something doesn't mean you are good at it.  Do you really have to be good at something to enjoy it?  How do I measure success?  Was I successful when I finally finished my first novel?  Will I be successful if and when I ever publish?  If I never publish will my time have been wasted?  These questions repeat over and over and over again in my brain.  Just like my old 45 of "Jessie's Girl" the needle stuck on woman like that, woman like that, woman like that.  Someone hit the record player already!!
My two greatest adversaries are Insecurity and Procrastination.  I cringe every time someone reads something I have written.  Will they enjoy it?  Will they understand my point of view?  Will I be just like those poor American Idol contestants who know they are destined for a great music career only to butcher a Celine Dion song on tv in front of millions.  Randy rolling his eyes as America falls off their couches laughing. And seriously, why do I give a blankety blank blank blank what someone else thinks?  Who knows, I just do.  These are my thoughts and creations.  Sharing them is never easy.
Procrastination, Procrastination my frenemy these many years.  I still hear my father's voice echoing in my head, "Don't put off until tomorrow, what you could do today", UGH!!!  Sometimes I sit down ready to write and my mind begins to wander.  Wandering can be good creatively, but wandering days on end without placing a single consonant on the paper, not so much.  The ideas are locked in my head. Until I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, the protagonist can not start her journey the plot can not thicken and the twist will never come at the end. 
So this was my first blog, the musings of an unpublished, never heard of writer (maybe I always will be).  In the end it doesn't matter, because I am driven to write-good, bad or ugly it is what I love.  For those of you reading this with a critical eye, allow me to clarify.  I said I love to write, I never said I particularly cared for good grammar or proper punctuation.