I thought it was closer to eight years. If you’d had me guess, I’d have put nine at the top, but I did start in 2016. That’s less a commentary on my ability to math and more my perception of how time had passed.

I’m old, dear reader. Not ‘old’. I don’t actually think you ever, truly become old, unless you feel you should be or you stop wanting to be young.

I just mean older than the person I was ten years ago. And that is a good thing, a bittersweet thing, and it is the tenth anniversary of beginning The Wandering Inn, so let us indulge a moment. Not in pure triumph, nor regrets or nostalgia, but a mix of emotions.

That is what the story is about, I think.

Ten years ago, I was exiting college and really, really unhappy about working as a stocker in Costco. I have alluded to this before, but it was a job I never wanted to obtain. I sat down for a job interview and got the job…I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and I already had clues writing was it.

But I was not a good writer. I had written two books, fanfiction, but they were not good pieces of writing. The first book, which is entitled ‘The Shadows of Life’, is cringe. There are only two copies in this world, and I have one, and my agent has the other because someone should get a chance to read it.

It’s a bad story. And again, this is a lie because I still love it, I just find it embarrassing. It has elements that The Wandering Inn pulls off more successfully, and it is an isekai. It was written just as the genre was taking off, without me knowing what ‘Game Literature’ or LitRPG was. I just thought ‘hey, what if this fantasy story had elements of video games?’

Someday, I’ll re-read it and grimace at all of what could have been, but I can look back on it now and say objectively it was poor. It might have made an awesome manga adaptation and been competitive in the LitRPG genre, who knows. But I’m glad it got no traction and I didn’t put it up online.

The second book was better, and it is about ‘Pirate’, a character I had come up with and wanted to tell the story of. The one people associate with me because it’s my profile image. But it, too, is not a good story. It is far, far better, but my writing abilities weren’t quite up to snuff. After that book, I graduated, was working as a stocker, and I was so unhappy with the state of being I was in and having to look for a ‘normal’ job that I began to write in my free time. I outlined a story that was based on other ideas I’d had.

An inn in a magical world. A Runner delivering messages.

Thus, The Wandering Inn began. It was not perfect. It took months for me to get my first comment, let alone viewers of over a dozen.

However, I was prepared for that. Writing two books and doing a blog of a thousand days with limited viewers gave me the preparation to not expect initial success. When readers did come, they were far more than I had ever experienced before. That was when I began to wonder if I could make this story a living.

It wasn’t something my family understood, and I think it alarmed them to think of me trying to support myself on a story I couldn’t even publish. Even to me, it was a far-off dream. I was working the third shift from 5 AM to 10 AM stocking items, then I’d go back, sleep, then wake up and write. Sometimes, I’d be writing desperately to get a chapter out before I headed off to work.

It was hard. I’d have nights when I would be trying to get some sleep, then sit up and stumble over to the computer to get the chapter written because I had to, even if it meant work would suck. But I felt like I had to finish a chapter no matter what.

Then at work, I’d think of what the next chapter might be while stocking items. And there is still nothing to this day that is more motivating for the mind than the dull work of having to do a manual task like that. Somedays, I wonder if I should just stock cans or something to come up with ideas—but no.

I hated working that job and dodging forklifts (which are exceptionally dangerous and scary), or moving fifty-pound bags of rice. I kept with it because I had given myself a deadline: two years. I would write for two years, and if I didn’t see success or the beginnings of it with The Wandering Inn, I’d quit both my job and writing and try something else, because I knew I couldn’t spend forever on something if it had no viability.

The rest…I think you know. A year and a half after I started writing The Wandering Inn, my Patreon had reached $800 per month, which was the bare minimum I thought I needed to survive with some savings. I handed in my two weeks notice and worked the last, longest two weeks of my life, and then I drove back to my home and slept for two days straight.

I have always been so grateful to my readers for that moment. And I promised myself that if I ever forgot, if it ever got too hard, I would drive to the Costco parking lot at 5 AM and just sit there and remember what I might have been doing.

I’ve never gone back. I’ve never had to.

Now, I could say the next years passed beautifully, and I was, perhaps, the happiest I had ever been in my life as my Patreon grew and I found a job that I had wanted all along, which didn’t even feel like work.

A passion. A meaning to life.

I could say that, and it would be true, but I think not true enough. Because in hindsight, I was exceptionally happy to start writing this vast story. And oh, how it grew.

From Volume 2, I think you can see me laying the groundwork for the true scope of The Wandering Inn as I realized that this story had an audience and I had the chance to tell it fully. It was fun, and all this is true, but I think, perhaps…I pushed too hard.

It is a common theme of readers new and old who catch up to the story to read my Author’s Notes at the end of each chapter and express a bit of dismay at how I write. Because I’m always expressing exhaustion and some mental anguish in them.

They’re accurate. I recall, vividly, nights when I couldn’t get a chapter quite ‘right’ in my head and I’d be sleeping, knowing I had less than 5 hours left to publish, and then waking up an hour later and continuing to write.

I published twice a week back then, and it was a mark of pride that I never missed a chapter, that I kept them consistently longer. I pushed and pushed, and I think it was unhealthy. But I was also younger, back then. The story was new, and I was motivated.

Pushing was good, but it did tire me, and it shows later. It is why I stopped writing twice a week and have been trying to commit to writing less. And it is less.

Stop laughing. Let me explain it another way: I never took breaks in the first…six years I want to say? I didn’t take off my birthday, holidays, nor my week off each month.

I wrote two chapters a week, which meant I was often writing for ten hours or more some days, for years. And I had no yearly break either. That’s a burnout pace, and I had to stop. I don’t regret doing it, just the fact that I didn’t see what was going on and that I needed people to convince me to do something that was better for my health, and thus the story. They are connected. But I digress.

There are a few incidents which stand out to me over the next period of time, as the volumes rolled on. Not the writing. I could speak on the writing for ages, how the story changed, and I found myself plateauing, trying to evolve, fighting complacency, and so on.

…But I think that’s in the text itself we both know. Perhaps later. Behind the scenes is a bit interesting, and a few of the highlights included meeting my agent, starting the Discord server, and streaming.

All three events are great boons for the story that made The Wandering Inn what it is now. I do not say it lightly.

First was my agent, I think. For his anonymity, I’ll just say his name is ‘Drew’ and that he helped me out with some contracts when I was first signing them and utterly hapless when it came to legal matters. But for him, I might have signed some of those predatory contracts floating around the industry.

He has also been the one who makes things happen. Gravesong began at his prompting me, and he has found The Wandering Inn team’s members, sourced other deals, and done so much behind the scenes…he is a true fan of the story.

That’s it. He wasn’t approaching me as an agent, but a reader of the story who asked if I wanted to work with Cloudscape on a graphic novel. The Last Tide. When he did become my agent and over the years, I have been so profoundly grateful for his help, and I mention it here because whatever he feels, he deserves that credit.

And the other credit belongs to, well, readers. The Discord I started years ago was so I could see more comments from readers and get their reactions. Comments on the WordPress are all very well, but it was limiting, and I took a chance on this social media platform, and it was hugely motivating to talk to people who liked the story.

Mind you, running a Discord server is tough, and finding moderators and figuring out how to organize it took time, but it is another way I met most of my beta-readers and found readers and met other authors. All these things play into the story itself.

It changed me from a lone mind writing in a room, with only feedback from comments to go on, to someone who could talk and get much more live feedback. Imagine, perhaps, someone wandering across a desert. They know the course, and they have whatever instincts they have, but they are still uncertain. For guidance, they sometimes find candles in the sand. Some candles are helpful, others not, but it is how they navigate.

Compare that to a traveller who passes through the desert and meets…people. Wandering travellers of their own, calling out advice or insults, caravans to trade for new ideas or supplies with. That’s motivation, information, and it is what I needed.

Writing is a solitary act, but even I wanted company. Both in readers to love the work and, well, fellow authors. I only know a few, but those I talk to are wonderful, talented people, and I only wish I had time to read their works fully.

Some have even come from reading The Wandering Inn, which is the hugest compliment I don’t deserve. Others? I’ve talked to some, and they occupy this strange section of literature with me, and sometimes I can talk to no one else who gets what this work is. I wish them all the best, and though we live on our own islands, I’d love to support or cheer them on, which I have tried if only to shout out works or do the occasional collaboration.

It’s nice not being alone, is my point. It’s nice to have a community, even if I am the hermit. I’d like to be better at that, even if it’s been ten years of hiding in a cave on a hill.

But I have always been like that. I don’t know if you can tell, but I am exceptionally introverted and don’t feel the need to talk to people. During the COVID pandemic and lockdowns, I only got antsy in the last three months after nearly two years of not going out. That should tell you how I operate, but not, perhaps, how I want to be. When I get to talking to people I like, I can’t shut up—something else you might be able to predict. I’ll try to do more of that.

That I found people to talk to on the Discord is wonderful. And it led me to the third and equally-important breakthrough: streaming.

I stream my writings online. You may not know it. Few people watch it compared to the regular readership of the story—it’s barely 100-200 people most times. However, they are a familiar community, and it is why I have continued to write so consistently.

No one else I know streams writing live. It’s hard, demands a fast typing pace and the ability to know the story and improvise or write without ceasing. However, there is nothing like it for motivation. Even having one person watching me is a huge boost to my motivation not to stop writing.

With that said, it can also be tough—a negative comment or a ‘this sucks’ does not feel great when you’re struggling to perform your best, but that is the nature of live performances at any time. What stream-writing gave me and still gives me is the beta-readers I allude to, the ability to write and get immediate feedback.

I can’t imagine how hard it is to write a full book and to take potentially years on it, only to have to wait for feedback. And then to know that you cannot change anything if they point out something prescient.

Also, the quantity of feedback is just lower from book-readers. With a live chat, I can read comments, and that is so entirely helpful—again, some unpleasant moments notwithstanding. But I treasure the typo-finders and beta-readers I have. Because again, I dislike writing alone.

I must know what people think of the story. I am an incredibly stubborn person, and I know the chapter I want, so I do not really fear being overly swayed by opinions. Yet I listen and try to always be listening, because if I do not, then I think the stories I tell will calcify and become stale. Amazing moments in The Wandering Inn have come about as a result of stream-feedback.

Like Raelt’s golden bell and the reason why it should not ring. That was not my moment alone. I came up with the implementation, the details, but it sprang from another reader’s comment, and I wish I could remember exactly who—but I think I credited them on the chapter. I hope I did.

I am not opposed to other people telling the story of The Wandering Inn, after all. The writing? Mine, and I doubt I will ever want someone else to help me write or even write in the world while it continues. That’s pride, but another thing that resulted from my agent and Discord were the projects like The Last Tide, the webcomic, and audiobooks.

Just between you and me? I love each work, and my only regret is that I have so very little to add to each one.

There are some other storytellers who, I think, don’t like seeing their work adapted at all. I can empathize; I’d hate to see The Wandering Inn told in any format badly, which is often a concern with movies and the like. But told well?

I have often dreamt of a movie or TV series, and my thought has always been that I could never tell it. It’s not my speciality; I need to find someone who loves the story and has their own vision for it. Like Peter Jackson told Lord of the Rings, they need to cut what they have to, and prioritize what they find beautiful and the end result will enthrall me.

I have longed for those days, and I found it in these other works. Andrea and Erin Bennett’s performances are the only way I can consume a lot of The Wandering Inn. I love the webcomic’s style and art, and it captures Erin’s face in a way that I could never see in my mind. Yet when I see it on the page…that’s her.

The Last Tide 2 will come out. It’s in progress, and it has a special story to tell. Yonder’s deal led to the Singer of Terandria series, and I have said that Huntsong is maybe my favorite written work as a whole. None of these things were the result of me alone, and they often took pushing—the result is worth it, eminently.

All these things are The Wandering Inn to me, and I just want more of it. Video games, an animated television show…I’d like to see it, but you know what? If I find the right people, I’d love for them to make it. And if I’m still writing when I see it, their work may influence the story. Artsy has done that more than once. Her image of Erin Solstice after the Winter Solstice at sea is the one I see whenever she sits in the Pavilion of Secrets.

All these moments make the story. It is mine, and I hoard it zealously, much like a certain Dragon we could name. But like a Dragon, it’s only meaningful to me because people enjoy it, because it matters.

So it is mine, but so many people and readers make it better. Without their chance comments or help, it would not be so strong.

I could go on about other factors that went into the years that have passed since. Personal events of which there have thankfully been few negative moments, or struggles with developments in the world or my attempts to do something with my ‘free time’ besides write.

But I think I’ve gone on a while, and I have a chapter to write this week, so I can’t burn out. Let me finish this anniversary blog with a few thoughts.

This has been a recap, a story of The Wandering Inn, if you will. I have told it before, but I don’t think a lot of you know it because I seldom talk about myself in longer terms. I constantly talk about my state of being, but not ‘pirateaba’. Because I don’t really think I’m that interesting or should be the focus.

However, the person behind the screen is always, and will always, be so grateful to be here. To be a writer is a dream. I had this dream when I was young, and as I grew up, I thought it wouldn’t ever actually happen. But here I am.

Imposter syndrome is a real thing, and I think some people fear they’ll wake up and one day, everything they have will turn out to be a gentle delusion, a dream. I…don’t have those fears.

I have a recurring nightmare that comes to me when I’m stressed, burnt out, or about to travel, and it is almost always the same:

I dream I am in high school or, sometimes, back in college, taking on a lot of classes. Not overwhelming, but hard, and simultaneously, I’m also pirateaba. Not the ‘young’ pirateaba of ten years ago, but the one right here, right now.

I have an income. I have fans. But in my dream, I’m so exhausted from my classes and writing that I know I have to quit. So I’m worried because I need to sit my parents down and tell them I’m quitting school or college (sometimes I’m taking high school twice for a second diploma or something stupid), in order to write. Because I know The Wandering Inn is a success and I don’t need to do this other stuff.

In my dreams, each time, I wrestle with dropping out of classes, but I know it’s the right thing to do, and I hope my parents will be understanding. When I come to that realization, I wake.

It’s a very annoying dream, but it’s a good benchmark whenever it occurs. I don’t often dream of The Wandering Inn itself, which I think tells me that I don’t believe I’m a character in the story. Or my mind is just sick of thinking about it. But with each week and month that passes, I think of this story each and every day.

Sometimes, I am exhausted or apprehensive of the next chapter. Other times, I can’t wait to get to this plot point or another, impatient to write the real stuff. And sometimes, I just don’t know what is coming next chapter specifically.

But we continue, and I hope you have enjoyed the story up till now. Ten years is a long time. It truly is. There was a point at which I was charting out the full scope of The Wandering Inn and I wondered whether I wanted to, or had the energy to write the vision in my head.

I was afraid of it. And I wondered if I could tell the story well all that way without it growing stale, or getting tired. I promised to try.

I’m still keeping to that promise, and I don’t think I have wavered, truly, in these ten years. Only sometimes, feared I was losing my touch, but not the will to continue until the finish line. I don’t know where we are in relation to the ending, but we have passed many of the plotlines I have charted out—and more are to come. What I will say is just this:

I believe there are more amazing moments in the story that I want to tell. Ones that shine as bright as the ones which have come before. If you’re with me, and if I still have readers, I will continue telling this story until we reach our conclusion. And I hope it is a beautiful one.

Thank you for ten years of company. I have not said a word to the characters of the story, and that is because I am ashamed to talk to them. I’m just the [Writer], and they’re the ones who suffer and breathe and live on the pages.

But if I may—thank you. To Erin Solstice, who walks the longest road of any heroine I have ever known, to Ryoka, running out of my imagination, the oldest character, to Rags, Toren, Pisces, Gerial, the living and the dead.

I hope the story would satisfy them if they could ever read it. That would be the greatest compliment of all.

See you next chapter,

—pirateaba