I know why my loved ones do not support my choice: they are afraid. Afraid it will be a terrible decision. Afraid I will sacrifice much and gain nothing. Afraid I will come to harm, or die in the pursuit. I cannot fault them. They do not know what will happen. Neither do I. That’s the problem: so many uncertainties, so many anxieties, so many unknowns. They are also afraid of what will happen if I succeed. What if I manage to kill a Hydra and become known throughout the land? What if I claim a vast treasure, surpassing their wealth and status? What if the experience changes me? If I try, and they don’t, what does that say about them?
resin that will burn bright and long. I will not trust my fate to unreliable tools.
I will not trust my fate to unreliable tools.
This training does not come naturally to me. The sword is heavy in my hand, and my footwork is too slow. I must work to improve.
What is this thing I’m doing, exactly? I’m no longer bound by the demands of daily life in town. I have no one to tell me what to do. There are no orders to follow, nor is there the promise of a reward for a job well done. It’s difficult to tell if I’m even making progress. I am wandering, but wandering with a purpose. I have an outcome in mind, but the future is impossible to know. I suppose this is the essence of adventuring. You know what you want, but the only way you can get it is to abandon what you know, set off into the world, and trust in preparation, skill, and Fortune to see you through to a good end.
Every time I’m tempted to complain about the difficulty and unfairness of life, I remind myself that I knew it was going to be hard before I left home, and that there is no victory without struggle.
I have to keep going and hope for the best.
As I stand outside the cave, I’m forced to admit: I really don’t want to go in there. I always have a reason to delay: I need to sharpen my sword. I need to make better torches. I didn’t sleep well last night. I may be coming down with a sickness. It’s too cold, too windy, too rainy.
As I stand outside the cave, I’m forced to admit: I really don’t want to go in there. I always have a reason to delay: I need to sharpen my sword. I need to make better torches. I didn’t sleep well last night. I may be coming down with a sickness. It’s too cold, too windy, too rainy.
No more excuses. My fears are justified, but not useful: I will proceed, even though I still feel afraid. This Hydra is not going to fight itself.
It took me three days to muster the courage to enter the cave. I crept just inside the entrance, paused for a moment, then scrambled up the slope and sprinted back to my camp. I must consider my first foray into the cave a success. I didn’t fight, but I took a small step closer to the objective. That is progress, and I need every victory I can claim right now.
The Hydra wasn’t as gigantic as I imagined it would be. Darkness and fear had played tricks on my mind. In the torchlight, I could see that it was large and powerful, but not invincible.
I managed to escape the cave before the beast could catch me. Sometimes it is good to be small: you can move faster than the behemoth.
Every once in a while, my fear recedes, and I have a glimpse of transcendence. The world fades, my mind is quiet, and all that exists is the task at hand.
As stories are told, feats of prowess are embellished, and the mundane reality of the struggle is left out to make the telling more exciting.
The heroes of legend did not slay the abomination in an hour, then return to their homes in time for dinner. It was just as difficult for them as it has been for me. This truth is not obvious, but it is important, and it helps to know
The heroes of legend did not slay the abomination in an hour, then return to their homes in time for dinner. It was just as difficult for them as it has been for me. This truth is not obvious, but it is important, and it helps to know it.
After a brief rest, I made my way to the back of the cave. Torchlight gleamed off a large pile of lustrous stones, hidden behind a boulder. I approached. My breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t a horde of gemstones, as I first thought: just a small pile of worthless crystals. I sank to my knees on the stone floor, tears wet upon my face.
I have never done this work before. It’s interesting, and I’m learning.
When I returned home, I was welcomed as a hero. My parents were proud, my master was surprised, and my friends boasted of my accomplishments to anyone who would listen. I enjoyed the attention and company for a while, but after a few weeks, it began to wear on me. I no longer needed validation or assurance: the struggle gave me everything I was looking to obtain.
I will attempt to write down the lessons I have learned while adventuring so that I can avoid repeating unnecessary mistakes. I am not sure if I will succeed: many important lessons are difficult to put into words, and the passage of time makes hard-earned wisdom easy to forget.
I’ve seen the lack of adventuring destroy more souls than a Hydra ever will.
The world is full of caverns. How can you know which ones hold treasure? You can’t know for sure, but there are clues. The shallow caves you can see into from the outside don’t contain anything worthwhile. They’re too easy: anything they once held is long gone. You’re looking for a deep, dark, ominous cavern: something that scares you.
There’s no sense in fighting with a dull, rusty sword. Invest your gold in well-forged weapons. Keep your sword sharp, your torches ready, and your armor well-maintained. Take care of your tools, learn how to use them, and they’ll serve you well.
Fear doesn’t mean you’re weak: it means you’re sane. Unpleasant emotions do not dictate your actions.
Many novices claim to be adventurers but never quite get around to standing toe-to-maw with the beast. Instead, they say to themselves, “I don’t feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.” Always tomorrow. Always later. Always any time but right now.
Your mind can invent horrors beyond those that actually exist. Rumination is not your friend. Action allows you to see the situation for what it really is.
Some attacks will hit. Others will miss. You can’t predict which will be which in advance. You have to commit to every attack with the same intention: to strike the enemy.
Setbacks, mistakes, and bad days are normal. There will be long periods where you don’t know what to do or if you’re doing the right thing. That doesn’t mean you’re broken: it means you’re human.
Adventuring requires trust in your own skills, judgment, and resilience. That’s the primary benefit of experience. Every time your mind conjures doubts about your ability to handle chaos and strife, the memory of past experiences can provide an arsenal of
Adventuring requires trust in your own skills, judgment, and resilience. That’s the primary benefit of experience. Every time your mind conjures doubts about your ability to handle chaos and strife, the memory of past experiences can provide an arsenal of counter-examples strong enough to overcome your fears.
Risk is an unavoidable part of adventuring. A single mistake, made out of ignorance or carelessness, can kill you. Only a fool relies solely on their resilience to mitigate damage. It’s far better to learn to anticipate incoming strikes and not be there when they arrive.
No matter how careful you are, you will make mistakes. After every engagement, there will be a hundred things that, looking back, you could’ve done better. Since that’s the case, the best approach is to make valuable mistakes: experiments that give you useful information and help you improve.
A funny thing happens after you win your first victory: all of a sudden, you have something to lose.
The next time you sally forth, all of these things will be in the back of your mind, along with a new fear: What if I fail this time? What will people think of me if I fall or return with nothing? It’s best to put all thoughts of renown and reputation aside before you engage. The fight is difficult enough as it is. The only thing worse than fighting a Hydra is fighting more than one Hydra at the same time.
The moment you prove you’re capable of slaying a Hydra, everyone will have thoughts about who you are, what you’re capable of, and how you should do your job. You’ll hear an endless stream of commentary and advice from people who have never picked up a sword with intent. Only take advice from people who have faced the beast.
Your confidence grows with every successful venture. Unless you’re wary, it’s easy to develop the mistaken impression that you cannot fail. That’s when you start to neglect all of the simple things that made you successful in the first place. You make beginner’s mistakes, and those mistakes can be significant enough to end you. Confidence is a potent ally, as long as it’s tempered with wisdom and restraint. You’re not invincible or infallible, so don’t pretend to be. On the other hand, you’re no longer a novice. You’ve earned the right to trust your own judgment and capabilities, even when others disagree. There’s a middle path between humility and hubris: work to find it.
On the other hand, you can’t succeed if you never try. Fortune tends to smile on those who act, even when the final outcome is not guaranteed. At some point, you must choose to move forward, do what you can, and hope for the best.
I did not choose this new adventure: it was offered to me. I never once considered hunting dragons until this morning. Dragons are crafty beasts, intelligent and wary. The thought of confronting one is not enticing. Is this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, or an unnecessary distraction? Are the circumstances of this venture actually to my advantage? If I accept this invitation, will I come to regret giving up everything I value to pursue someone else’s dream?
The adventurers were preparing to depart, loading their horses with supplies. As I approached, they turned to me, smiling. I spoke, my voice clear and firm. “Thank you, friends, for inviting me to join your venture. It is an unexpected honor.” I opened my saddlebags. “I must decline your offer: my place is here, with my loved ones. I have brought each of you a gift. Consider it a token of thanks for your confidence and trust in me.” I handed every member of the party a dagger, carved by my own hand from a Hydra’s tooth, encased in a leather sheath. The engravings on each bone-white hilt glowed in the light of dawn.
As I moved among them, I could see that several of the adventurers wore brand-new sets of Hydra-scale armor, and their bows were set with familiar bowstrings. I smiled. “I wish you every success. Farewell, and good luck.”
There’s ample precedent in using metaphor to talk about speculative projects in creative and business endeavors. The best modern example is The War of Art by Steven Pressfield.
The best general strategy is to focus on completing one critical task at a time.
Some people will support your desire to adventure, and others will not. Do not let their doubts and concerns dissuade you if you've decided the experience, benefits, and potential rewards are worth the risks.
Every adventure requires a certain amount of exploration. You will spend time lost in the wilderness, uncertain about which way to go. You can't eliminate it: exploration is an unavoidable part of adventuring.
The path to victory: keep moving toward your objective, undeterred by hardship.
Sharpening your abilities and learning new skills are excellent uses of your time and energy.
Take care of your health: perseverance depends on your physical, mental, and emotional fortitude.
Experiment with different approaches until you find something that works.
Often, the reward at the end of the journey is not what you expect. Be open to the possibility of finding treasure in unexpected places and in uncommon forms.
Focus all of your attention and effort on cutting the enemy; do not waste time on doubt, anxiety, or unnecessary flourishes.