There isn’t a boy in this world who can resist the siren call of adventure on the open sea. So when a pirate ship showed up in the harbor beyond the hill, the boy ran home, packed a bag, kissed his mother goodbye, and sprinted to the quay and up the gangplank, where he asked the weathered captain if he could join the crew. The captain, of course, said yes, and Scrappy Jack, at 2.5 years old, became the youngest pirate boy to ever sail with such a ragtag bunch of ne’er-do-wells as this.
Simplicity has been a recurring theme in my life lately. Through books, movies, conversations, t-shirts, and bumper stickers, I’ve been relentlessly pursued by the gentle insistence that I need to simplify. In some regards, this is nothing new. When Becca and I were house shopping a few years ago, I told her, “I want something nice, and big enough for the family we hope to have — but modest.” No ostentation for me, thank you very much.
I hate myself.
That is to say, I hate people who Announce their Return To Blogging in a blog post, which is exactly what I’m doing here. Ergo: I hate myself. The truth is, I’ve needed to blog for a while — I’ve got things to say (I think), my wife and a handful of friends have been encouraging me to get back into it, and I’ve realized that any self-respecting writer has his own blog (I’ve realized the same thing about Twitter, but I’m not sure I want to go there again).