It's been far too long since my last blog post back in November 2013.  Frankly, as I had gathered no followers after six years of intermittent blogging and only a few dozen readers, I was feeling that blogging was a waste of my time and efforts.

So, what's changed in the last seven years to motivate me to take another try at blogging?  A lot!

I'm now settled in my new home in San Antonio.  I've established a dōjō here, although it's been shuttered since April 2020 due to the Covid panic-demic.  I've terminated my online teaching activities.  Those changes have prompted me to direct more of my attention to writing.  And blogging is, after all, writing.

I've devoting my first new blog entry to one of my major accomplishments of 2020:  the publication of the 25th Anniversary Memorial Edition of Flashing Steel.  This edition, released to the public on 06 October 2020, represents the culmination of my twenty-three year relationship with my sensei, Shimabukuro Masayuki Hanshi, over thirty years of training in iaijutsu (a form of samurai swordsmanship).  It presents his teachings—or at least my understanding of his teachings—as fully as I am capable of doing, together with a tribute to his life and memory.

Flashing Steel Cover

The first edition of Flashing Steel was published in 1995.  It contained some 66,000 words and 438 photographs on 268 pages presenting the history, philosophy, and combat methods of Muso Jikiden Eishin-Ryu iaijutsu.  Together, Shimabukuro Hanshi and I updated and expanded that work to 78,000 words and 1,753 photographs with the 338-page Second Edition, published in 2008.  The 25th Anniversary Memorial Edition is  570 pages containing 129,000 words and 2,407 photographs, including six entirely new chapters.

In terms of its physical and emotional toll, it was possibly the most difficult endeavor I've ever undertaken.  The self-imposed pressure to create a lasting tribute to the memory and teachings of my sensei was enormous.  I examined and re-examined nearly every word, yet never felt that my efforts were worthy.

I'm a member of the San Antonio Writer's Guild and several other writers' groups, and have discussed this with many others, so I know it is the burden of nearly every writer to never be entirely satisfied with the quality of their work.  There's always the feeling that something could be stated more clearly, more fully, or more eloquently.  Always the feeling that something more should be added.  And it's a struggle to eventually set those feelings aside and approve the final draft for publication, knowing that once it's in print it cannot be altered and your mistakes and shortcomings will forever be there for all the world to see.

But I felt even more greatly burdened by the fact that the finished work would not only reflect on me, but on my sensei, as well.  The possibility of blemishing his public image, reputation, memory, and legacy was a nearly unbearable fear.  And once I signed off on the final edits, only time would tell if my fears were justified or baseless.

So far, to my great relief, the ratings and reviews have all been favourable.

But in the back of my mind there's still a small voice whispering, "It's only been four months ..."