Chapter 11: The Greatest Publisher In The Metauni­

verse “What do you think,” I asked, anxiously. “Is it publishable.” I sat nervously in the office I’d created of the character I’d created to publish the book I was creating. I studied him as I waited. He was tall, and handsome, and moved with astonishing grace. He was brilliant and articulate. In his presence I found myself both diminished and elevated; dimin­ ished because I realized I’d never be half the man he was; elevated because something in his manner made me feel special, as though, for that moment at least, I was the most important per­ son in the universe. Even though he was. “I’ve read what you’ve written so far,” he said. “Including this chapter?” I asked. “Right to the sentence before this one,” he said. “It’s not publishable.” “Why not?” I asked. “Not enough sex,” he said. “Sex sells books, You’ve got 46 pages in this draft, including this page, and not one bit of sex. You need sex. A lot of sex. And you have to fix the opening part of this chapter where you describe me.” “It’s an accurate description, isn’t it?” I asked. “Aren’t you short, fat, and grotesquely ugly. Isn’t your face covered with warts and pustular sores?” “Four four isn’t that short,” objected The Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse. “Fix it if you want me to publish it.” “Maybe I’ll go to another publisher,” I said. “I’m not about to be blackmailed. I have artistic integrity.” “There are no other publishers in this metauniverse,” The Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse replied, smiling. “You are not about to be blackmailed; you had already been blackmailed when you said you were not about be blackmailed. And you are still being black­ mailed. And you are about to learn how little artistic integrity you have.” The Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse was telling the truth, the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator narrated, regretfully. There were no other publishers. The author had been and was be­ ing blackmailed. And he was about to find out that he had no artistic integrity. “OK,” I said, “I’ll add more sex. How do you want me to describe you?” “Here,” he said, and handed me a piece of paper. “Use this.” I looked at what he’d written. It was a complete fabrication. But I decided to use it. Using it would show that I wasn’t rigid, but flexible and open minded, good attributes in a writer. It doesn’t show that at all,” said my inner critic. “It shows that you have no artistic integrity.” “Your inner critic is right, said The Publisher. “And one other thing,” the Publisher added. “What is it?” I asked. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “Your inner critic is right about something else. It’s a stupid book. Your writing is crappy. Except for me there’s not a memorable character in it. You need some professional help. I sug­ gest you get an editor.” “Even better,” the author, as directed by this metanarration in 11 point Bookman ital­ ic, metanarrated by the Metaomniscient Metanarrator because of the requirements of what will, one day be called Antichapter 5, called A Small Plot Change, which will be created by the currently nonexistent adversary, who will appear on page 67, in what will one day be Antichapter 2, will, add: “a muse. Yes. A muse. Much better than an editor. A muse is exactly what you need. Get a muse!” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies He’s Right, You Know. “Who?” I asked my inner critic, after reading the title. “The Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse,” said my inner critic. “He’s the voice of your unconscious. Your unconscious knows. Even if you won’t admit it.” “That I need more sex?” I asked. “No,” said my inner critic. “That your book sucks.” I thought for a moment. Actually I thought for several weeks, but to you it will seem like a moment unless you were interrupted while reading this paragraph. “I’m back to my original goal,” I said. “I don’t care how good it is. I don’t care about pub­ lishing it. I just want to finish it. And the only way I can do that is to keep editing and see what happens.” “Alright,” said my inner critic. “But I want to point out, for your own good, that your book is stupid, and no matter what you do, it’s going to suck.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies A Necessary Sex Scene “Take me!” She pleaded. “Do we really have to have sex now?” I asked. I was nervous. She was the woman I’d met at the cocktail party on page 36. When the Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse told me the book needed more sex I thought of her. I remembered that she’d given me her phone number. I called her. “Will you have sex with me,” I asked as soon as she picked up the phone. “Who is this?” She answered. I introduced myself, and as soon as I told her that I was a self-referential metanovel author, she said yes. Before she could change her mind, I started this scene, flashed back to how we’d met, then flashed back forward back to the action. “I just read page 46,” she said, “chapter chapter 11, and I understand your motivation. The Publisher said not enough sex. You want it published. So here we are. Is that right?” “That’s true,” I said. “But I don’t want you to feel used. You’re a very attractive woman in your own right, and I’m allowed to fantasize, providing no one finds out.” “Of course I’m being used,” she said. “I’m another one of your plot devices. I’ve been de­ signed to be attracted to self-referential metanovel authors, of which you are the only one in ex­ istence. But it doesn’t matter. I have my own reasons for being here. It’s a matter of survival. You exist whether or not you get your book published, but I’ll exist only if it’s published. “So let’s not waste more time. Let’s go.” At the start of this chapter I hadn’t considered what sex would be like in a self-referential metanovel. Now I knew. You, and all the other readers who had ever or would ever read this page were watching. This was the most popular page in the entire metanovel. Billions of copies had been emailed around the Internet. It had been posted and reposted, liked, +1ed, shared, tweeted, and retweeted billions of times. As the book’s author I could perceive all the readers. It made me nervous. “Take off your clothes!” She said. “I want to exist! We have to do it now.” I looked up for a moment. Billions of readers’ eyes were following these words. “No!” She said. “Stop looking at them! Stop stalling!” “Eeeeew,” said my three daughters, who had six of the billions of watching eyes. “Daaaad! TMI! TMI! TMI!” “What are you kids doing in my metanovel,” I asked, a little embarrassed. “We’re reading,” one answered. “It’s your book. You gave it to us. And we’re reading it. Eeeew!” “Eeew!” Another echoed. “It’s bad enough that you had sex with Mom those three times.” “Look kids,” I said. “This is not really happening. It’s just a chapter in a novel.” “It’s a self-referential metanovel,” said another. “We know that what happens in a self-refer­ ential metanovel can happen in real life.” “We read that in your metanovel,” said another. “Get out of this chapter, Dad!” Another said. “Replace yourself right now!” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “Crap,” I muttered. “You’re spoiling my fun!” “We can read what you are muttering,” said another. “Get out now!” I nodded. “Sorry,” I said to the woman. “I need to bring in a pinch-lover.” “Hello!” smiled the pinch-lover. It was Jim, the man from the cocktail party. “Hello, Jim,” said the woman, slipping out of her dress. “Let’s go!” She took his hand and pulled him into the gutter that ran between the pages. The Greatest Publisher in the Metauniverse shook his head approvingly. “Not bad, but there has to be a lot more sex than that.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Enough Sex For Publication In 2011 in this metanovel’s parent universe, the population of planet Earth had reached sev­ en billion people. Since metauniverses inherit all properties of their parent universes unless spe­ cifically overridden, that made the population of metaEarth in the metauniverse seven billion people as well. Human sex acts, including masturbation, by sexually active human individuals, occur, on av­ erage, 3.714 times per week. The average is raised substantially by teenaged boys. In both uni­ verses, half of those seven billion people are too young, too old, too sick, or prevented by occu­ pation, belief, or circumstances from engaging in sex. That leaves left 3.5 billion sexually active individuals who would among them engage in almost 13 billion human sex acts per week. The average sex act takes 4.122 minutes and requires 1.2 people (most sex acts are masturbation and most masturbation is fast and solo.) As a result, human beings spend 153 million person-hours per day having sex. That’s a lot of sex. To put it in perspective: it took just seven million person-hours to build the Empire State building, and 22 million person-hours to build the Golden Gate Bridge. Humans engage in nearly seven Golden Gates bridges or 22 Empire State buildings worth of sex each and every day. The Greatest Publisher In The Metauniverse smiled and nodded. “That’s enough sex. “Now the book needs to be less stupid.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies