Ahem. Starting April 2024, I will release ~30,000 words only on Saturday instead of twice a week.
It is my intention to begin this starting in April so my readers, but especially Patreons, aren’t blindsided by this notice. For the month of March, I’ll be sticking to my regular schedule.
As for why—well, that’s a longer post, and I’ll try my best to explain below. But so you know:
The Wandering Inn is releasing at half the current rate starting in April.
…It’s not really big news in some senses. Web serials don’t get—what is it—the plethora of probably AI-generated blog posts when a celebrity sneezes or someone gives Elden Ring a negative review. We’re our own, sometimes isolated, communities online.
For the readers of this story, I imagine this isn’t what you want to hear, but I had a moment where I was worried about writing this post and concerned about saying everything properly and wondered if this is the inevitable advent of ego. Because it doesn’t matter.
And it does. This announcement may have come out of nowhere for you, and in truth, it sort of did for me. Because I’ve thought about doing something like this for ages. But never actually given it serious thought because I couldn’t imagine letting people down like this, or slowing down on the project I love working on so much.
To be clear, that’s not why I’m doing this. I’m not sick, I’m (fairly) healthy, and there are no family or other events forcing me to do this. I just believe it’s the best thing for the story. And me, but let me begin again.
There was foreshadowing for this moment. Foreshadowing—announcing something subtly before it happens—is a writer’s technique that I want to get better at. I do it a lot for big events, and you don’t always have to use it, but in this case, I wrote the Author’s Note that would lead to this day a while back.
At the end of Volume 8, I wrote one of the most honest posts, which I still feel like comes across as complaining. In it, I mentioned that for the finale, for the ending chapters, all I did was write. I didn’t talk to people, I had nightmares every day, worrying if it would be good enough—and that writing took a toll.
Not a physical one—well, I’ve been to physical therapy for my arms a few times, but not an excruciating toll like physical labor. And not the mental energy of having to pick up someone’s fingers while working as an EMT or anything close to that. Writing is just tiring. If I don’t get 8-9 hours of sleep, if I don’t devote a lot of thinking before writing a chapter to outlining, if I don’t sit at a computer and type for 6 hours minimum, the chapter won’t get done.
That’s fine. That’s good. That’s…a bare minimum job, really. But I would like to think I write a lot, even for a full-time writer. Not the most ever; there have been authors who write similar amounts and probably more (by comparison if nothing else, if they were using damn typewriters or going by hand). There are authors who can produce multiple, edited books of stellar quality per year.
But I do, on average, over 60,000 words per week. I give myself time to edit as well, and the result is that I wake up at 6 PM for me most days, I work, sometimes until I can see the sun shining and it’s close to sleep, and I have had weeks when I can count the number of people I’ve talked to on one hand.
I have had…times when I didn’t know when the last time I went outside and walked in the sun was. And they are such long intervals I’m ashamed to write them down.
Part of that is personality. I’ve always loved working in the night, when no one can bother me, and after writing, it’s hard to sleep because my mind won’t shut off, even if I’m tired. However, the amount of work is also a factor.
There are days when it’s not so bad. Some days I have energy, I feel punchy; I get a chapter done, it’s quality stuff, and it’s only six hours of work. I have time to exercise and relax, and I’m ready for tomorrow and even ahead on work. And this is the most fulfilling job of my life, so I can’t ask for anything else.
Then, there are other days. Days when I finish writing and realize I have woken up, microwaved a bagel (because it’s faster), and sat down at the computer and began work while having breakfast. Then written and gotten up only to eat once, and use the restroom, and now it’s four hours before I should sleep. Or two.
That sounds sort of crazy, even to me, but I’ve livestreamed some of those days. I work, I put out a 40,000-word chapter or something ridiculous that isn’t perfect, but it’s done in three days, and you know what?
Even that’s fine. I’d be content with that. You work hard, you do something that matters. But then I lie down and remember—oh. It’s a Saturday.
I have a chapter to write tomorrow before my day off on Wednesday. Those are when the days are hard.
And you know what!? Even that’s fine.
If. If I thought I was writing the greatest story ever since sliced bread and the Sistine chapel or something, I wouldn’t think of stopping. I would continue writing even if every day was miserable and I was in pain until the story was done or I was dead.
Because that would be worth it. But thankfully, I have enough self-awareness to know that The Wandering Inn isn’t the greatest work ever, and it’s the lack of time that’s hurting me. Which is the biggest catalyst for this change.
I’m going to tell you two absolutely true things, one of which is personal, the other of which might be silly. But they’re the reasons I decided it’s time to slow down.
Perspicacious readers of the now, of 2024, with AI-generated stuff in the news, wars, and, uh…let me check the news. Everyone talking about US elections today…
Those kinds of readers, or ones catching up via Author’s Notes, may have made the inference that editing all of Book 12 may be why I’ve come to this decision. And they’re correct, well done; it was an exhausting process to edit an entire book in what was functionally one week. I thought I had another month—but I got it done.
I’m better at revising than I used to be, and it was tiring, but I’ve survived worse with Gravesong. That’s not either of the true things I promised to tell you, by the way.
The true thing is this: around the time Erin brought it up in the story, because the story does influence life sometimes and vice versa, I thought to myself—I might die soon.
I don’t actually know why I’d be dead. I don’t have a health condition that I know of, and I stay away from cars and dangerous activities. But I thought I should write a will. Because…if I should die, who’ll know how the story ends? My notes are not that complete.
I have told no one how the story ends, and one of the stories that shaped my own growing up, regardless of what you may think of it, is The Wheel of Time. My first long, epic fantasy from an author who took me past The Lord of the Rings into a strange world of his own design. Robert Jordan wrote this grand, ambitious series…and died before he could tell anyone how it ended.
A good, brave author took his notes and finished the story. And he did it because Robert Jordan left behind enough notes—because he knew he was dying—to finish the tale. That’s always stuck with me as something an author should do.
So I decided to write a will. Also, to divest myself of money and whatnot, but mostly to write down plot points and tell people how it would have ended. Now, stop here and think. (Foreshadowing). What happened?
I never wrote it. It’s been on my back burner for…four months now? I think every week, or every few days, ‘darn, gotta write that will’. It’s going to be big because even if I crib notes like ‘this person dies’, I have so much to write. But I think you’d agree it’s important. No one can predict how things turn out, and if nothing else, it’d help me structure my own story.
I haven’t written it, and in the back of my mind, I think I knew at some point after my break that if I didn’t have the time or energy to do it during January, I never would. When I’m on break, I’m dead to the world; I describe it like my IQ actually dropping. I can’t focus. I need a week or two before I’m even thinking I should go for more walks, read books, check out a new TV show—then I’m back to it.
When I’m writing, I don’t save any energy for anything else, let alone another project. I have other things I want to write; I’ve thought about tons of other stories, and while I love writing The Wandering Inn, it would be fun to write this, that, experiment on another project, or just write a damn will, organize my notes…I never can do that.
I don’t have time to write a will. And in a sense, that’s good, because it means I have enough to do. But sometimes, I do feel like going out and making friends, or even exploring the city I live in. I don’t know like…basic landmarks in the city, despite having lived here for a decade.
The writing process does weird things to you. When I was a kid, I once had to log how many books I read per year, and I did over 400 one time; often re-reads of my favorite series. I think I’ve mentioned that before, but I also had amazing daydreams. Adventures in the stories I read, or of other stories I came up with.
I don’t have daydreams anymore. When I try, it just becomes thinking about characters in The Wandering Inn. Which is fine. That’s a good tradeoff. The lack of time and meeting people’s a bit harder. The lockdowns during COVID-19…really, really didn’t change my life at all. In fact, I think I’ve lived like that ever since. And that is sort of depressing, sometimes.
It’s also personality, but it’s about time. If you wake up when the world’s gone dark, you can have a nightlife—after you finish working. So about 2-6 AM. I should hang out with more people from…Australia? Europe? Something like that. And I do; I’m on the computer all the time. But I don’t leave my house much.
I know how Emily Dickenson never left her house for most of her life. I’m just surprised she needed the garden. I hate gardens and bugs. I suppose not having a computer meant she got bored. But there’s only so long I can play video games before I also feel like I’m missing a world outside.
Okay, the second true thing is more embarrassing. In my spare time, I watch Youtube videos. Like, constantly. Often longer-form ones or even essays about the nature of writing or other stories because it’s easier than sitting down and reading a book. Which I don’t do anymore because I run out of the capacity for more words other than writing.
I was watching a video of someone coming out as a woman. They were describing what it was like to be transgender, the need to change, and what it was like keeping up a façade for their entire life.
I won’t write the exact quote out, but what I heard was, ‘I believe I can’t do this forever’. ‘I believe I can’t continue doing this.’ They had to go, and they took their time to bow on stage and let everyone know why. It was a classy exit. A beautiful one. That struck me.
I know, it’s the most classic thing for someone to take someone else’s personal journey and make it about them. But that was, perhaps, part of the point of the video. It was inspiring to see someone do something difficult and private and decide to change. It took me a bit to wonder why it was haunting me.
…Then I listened to Piano Man by Billy Joel. And that was a huge mistake. Because I do like that song. But I’ve always thought of the best line, along with probably the rest of the world, is when the song describes a nice guy at a bar who’s always cheerful and friendly to everyone else who stops and says, ‘Bill, I believe this is killing me’.
(‘Bill’ is the singer of the song.)
Call it those two things. Or realizing how hard editing Book 12 was. I don’t often believe in providence. Sometimes—sometimes I wonder if there’s other stuff at play, or magic, but I do believe you see what you’re looking for, and I noticed those two things. But those two things hit me, and I realized it was time to change for myself. Now, I’ll tell you why.
All of those reasons above? The personal time I may have lost? A desire to talk to someone, to read books again? Those are fine reasons, good reasons.
…I’ve had these thoughts before, and I have never slowed down. They’re not enough to convince me. The real reason, the best and only reason that could get me to write half of what I do, is this: I’m no longer meeting my own standards.
I believe I’m still writing decently sometimes. I do believe I’m a far better writer than I was in the earlier volumes. But you know…that’s not the same as having the energy to be inspired or the time and space to stop, trash an entire chapter, and go back and do it right.
I get three days to write a chapter: two days to write, one to edit. In fact, I have to edit 10.06 right after this. That helps with the process, but after that, I’m either on my one day off or writing the next one.
I can’t let writing sit. I used to take walks before each chapter; I don’t anymore, and I’d have amazing ideas on some walks. Sometimes I’d just get blisters, but I’m missing the time to reflect on what I’m about to write or go back to the drawing board.
Whether I am as good as I was before, in earlier volumes, or even if I am the best writer at this point in my career, it doesn’t matter because I know the truth. I can do even better. That’s why I need more time.
Two chapters at 30,000 words is too much. And you could say, ‘well, write 20,000 words twice a week’. I think it’s the fact that it’s two chapters that matters. If I move down to one chapter, or a 30,000 word goal, I get to sit on it. I get more time off, and perhaps I’ll spend all that time getting ahead on work, or maybe I’ll just laze around more, read books, go for walks, and that’s fine.
Neil Gaiman wrote in a blog that a good storyteller reads, listens to, and takes in stories because they have to. If you don’t see a story that can inspire you, envy what another writer does, and find your own tales that you love, then you’re just drawing from yourself, and that’s like a well that never refills.
I haven’t taken in that many stories in longer-form content for years now. I think working on any project worth doing takes sacrifice. I’m willing to give time, energy, opportunity, and I thought if you give enough of yourself, that’s what’s required.
There’s going to be not much of pirateaba left to tell a great story if I don’t sit down and read someone else’s work. If I get more time, well, maybe I’ll continue this lifestyle and nothing will change. But at least I’ll have no excuse not to go outside and touch grass.
Time. Time for projects I want to do, other writing projects. Time to go exploring this world—or not if I decide the world sort of sucks and I’m tired. But time to read books, and if nothing else, time to write a better chapter.
I don’t think you’ll see it, at first. I think it’ll just be easier on me, and you all will just get half the content you’re used to.
So I did want to tell readers in advance so they can unsubscribe from Patreon. I hope people will continue reading, and I hope my writing style and the time will pay off in dividends I can’t even imagine.
The story requires more care than it used to, especially with the many plotlines, and perhaps this change means the story will go on longer and I’ll put less work out per week. But I might survive longer.
…I have no ending for this in my notes, and yes, I did have notes for this blog post. So, I suppose I’ll end with this.
It’s my birthday. Or it was yesterday, and I was fully prepared to keep working and write on that day. Not too much; just a regular day of work. Then I somehow got ahead and took the day off, and that was great. Working on your birthday is a thing adults do, and it’s fine.
But I didn’t have to, and one of the things I was going to do was write this blog post yesterday. I decided it was fine to do today. For my birthday, this year, as I turn thirty-one and leave all pretenses of youth behind (I’m moving up the bar for youth till I hit 40 from now on)…
For my birthday, I’m giving myself the option to work less starting in April. Not that I necessarily will, but that I can. If I choose to fill up my time with the exact same amount of writing and just create a backlog of a hundred chapters, or write another story along with The Wandering Inn, I will.
I’ll try something new, though. Then I can’t say I never had the chance if I’m old and full of regrets. It’s always my choice. So, thanks for hearing me out on this silly story that’s not at all important.
—pirateaba
PS. I still love writing The Wandering Inn. That was never in question. It’s just…the story can be even better than it was. If the author didn’t matter at all, things would be so much easier. It’s a shame we’re linked, isn’t it? No matter how much we try, the author and the story can’t get away from each other.
