I’ve long avoided the word “adventure” — for multiple reasons.
For one, I cannot stand the word’s appalling semantic creep. Once upon a time, “adventure” meant something very similar to this piece’s title. Now, however, it means something much weaker than that — basically, anything even remotely diverting or amusing. The once-grand “adventure” has become a simple synonym for “outing” or “errand”.
I’m going on an adventure to the mall!
Uh, hardly.
More significantly, though, I avoid the word “adventure” because I simply do not enjoy adventure. Not the watered-down version, and certainly not the robust version.
I don’t like to free climb; I don’t like to evangelize; I don’t like to back-country ski; I don’t like to hitchhike; I don’t like to go dancing; I don’t like to travel alone; I don’t like to drive at night; I don’t like to attend concerts; I don’t even like to go to well-woman visits.
I’m a recalcitrantly anxious person — and accordingly, I tend to avoid any and all activities that bear a measurable risk of emotional, spiritual, or physical loss.
[Note: Parenthood is the obvious exception here.]
And yet — and yet — while *I* didn’t seek out adventure… adventure nevertheless sought out *me*.
A little over a year ago, I was unexpectedly called into a risky undertaking with uncertain outcomes. The saga has certainly not proceeded in the way that I expected — because, let’s be real, God is a much more nuanced and thrilling author than any of us humans could ever hope to be.
But, though this story has been shocking, heartbreaking, exhilarating, exhausting, and everything in between… it has also been good.
(Like, “good” in the sense of “moral or spiritual excellence” — not in the sense of “barely passable”. Alas — another egregious example of semantic creep.)
Anyway, that’s the point of this post: to announce that I’m finally ready to write the story of our unexpected adventure.
Here’s the problem, though: I don’t know exactly how long I’ll need — but I’ll definitely need longer than a single month.
Now, obviously, I have long held to the goal of publishing one piece per month, with few exceptions. Even so, it’s been a while since I actually achieved that goal — considering that I’ve been late to publish almost every single story of the past two years. And, notably, none of those posts bore the same life-changing significance as will this impending series.
Thus, the task at hand demands its full scope — and, quite simply, putting words to the entire arc of this story will require time that is difficult for me to obtain. Gone are the days when I could simply turn my son’s naps into thirteen-thousand-word birth stories. (Published on time, I might add.) Rather, I have had to come to terms with the reality that, despite my best intentions, I simply cannot produce this entire saga within a single month. What’s more, constantly diverting my attention toward tiny stopgap-type stories will only further delay work on my more significant pieces.
And so, I leave you with this: a promise that I will be back… eventually. I just don’t know how long it will take.
Oh, and one more thing. I won’t give away the surprise(s) — because I’m going to try to write these coming posts in the same manner as I did The Death of Occidentalis: that is, in a way that transports the reader *into* the story. I want you to feel the suspense, the hope, the ups, the downs… the everything.
So, to summarize: I will do what it takes to tell this story well.
[Author’s Note: I recognize that a several-month hiatus will leave a huge gap in the record of my children’s developing personalities. Accordingly, I’m also posting Hiatus 2024, where I’ll periodically add tiny nuggets of content — basically just blurbs about funny, sweet, or important moments. That post will only get sent out once — so check back in periodically for updates.
Or, you know, don’t. Totally up to you.]