The Ronin and the Bushi
When I’m not writing bad novels or d20 adventures, I’m the admin for a non-profit independent school. Money is always tight, and when money gets tight people get upset. Yesterday was another 12-hour day that culminated in Harley swallowing the (rightful) frustration of an angry founder. As the sun set on the valley, I slung my laptop over my shoulder and walked home along the empty highway.

It is times like these that the idea of going ronin appeals to my imagination. Harley, cutting off his topknot, slinging his katana over his shoulder and wandering from village to village, chopping wood in exchange for room and a bit of rice wine, and occasionally saving the day.

This is one of the unlisted benefits of being a fantasy hack. Your imagination is your best friend, and it is easy to romanticize your way out of grim situations. I’m not poor, I’m a suffering artist. You’re not unpublished, you're just the next bestseller waiting to be discovered. And so on.

But walking home yesterday, it struck me how cowardly and selfish my plan was. You don’t go ronin because you’re strong, but because you broke under the pressure of responsibility. The solitary swordsman wandering the western desert isn’t a picture of stoicism. He’s just fleeing in slow motion.

I know that my personal revelation isn’t anything new. We could probably find it in the last 5 minutes of every bad pseudo-samurai anime produced in America, where the lone wolf comes back to care for the people he nearly abandoned. But realizing it on an emotional level was a powerful experience, and radically different from passively observing it.

So what about the bushi, sacrificing himself for the call of responsibility? There’s a story in there for me, not because the idea is new, but because it moved me so powerfully last night.

So straighten up those kimonos, kids, and get your swords polished. We’re going to war.