Chapter 18: I Give Up!

I give up! He thought. “I give up!” He said, for emphasis. “I give up!!” He said, with two exclamation marks, for even more emphasis. I’ve got to face reality. My writing is crap. My only hope is the muse. I’m going to trust her. I’m gong to do what she says! I’m going to delete every copy of everything that I ever wrote. I’m going to start fresh. I’m really excited about the chance to work with a real muse. I can’t wait for New Chapter 1. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Antichapter 11: He Gave Up “He gave up,” said the antimuse. “How do you know?” said the voice. “He’s written another chapter. It’s chapter 18, and it’s called I Give Up! He says he gives up.” “You don’t mind if I check it?” Asked the voice. “Do you?” “You’re not going to find it,” said the antimuse. “And why not?” Asked the Voice “Because he gave up,” said the antimuse. “The chapter?” Asked the Voice. “Yes, along with the rest of the metanovel,” said the antimuse. “Go look. You won’t find any of it.” “You’re right,” said the Voice after a pause. “The metanovel’s gone. Nothing’s left but our antichapters.” “I told you,” said the antimuse. “So your plan is working,” said the Voice. “That’s great. What’s next?” “Next is the brainstorming meeting,” said the antimuse. “Right,” said the Voice. “I thought nobody was going to show up, but you said they won’t.” “Yes,” said the antimuse, “Something worse will happen. It’s a surprise. Gotta go. New Chapter 1 is starting.” Refs: 10He Didn’t Show Up134 12The Second Step140 Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Narrative Chapter 1: An Accomplished Liar I’d lied. Not to the muse’s face, but I’d lied in the metanovel, where I knew she’d find it. I’d lied ten times! I’d done it! By the end of Chapter 18, I had thought one lie, spoke three, and narrated the rest. Every sentence in the chapter was a lie. Nearly every phrase was a lie. I’d lied repeatedly, assuredly, and I hoped effectively. And I felt really good! All that lying practice had paid off. And now I was really ready to face the muse! I waited, just long enough to give the muse time to read Chapter 18 while I moved a copy to a backup metauniverse. Then I deleted the original. I could hardly wait to lie to her face! But when I looked for New Chapter 1, I found it was in the past, not the future. I went back and read the chapter. The muse had been there, and she was pissed. And I found the muse had left me a note. If you want your novel to not be crap, meet me in New Chapter 2, tomorrow, 8:00 AM. If you’re not there, I am done!!! Muse She sounds really pissed, I thought, but no matter. I’d see her in New Chapter 2. And I’d lie my ass off! Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 2: Arrival At Last “I’m pissed,” the muse said when I arrived in New Chapter 2. “There I was, ready to help you, and you didn’t show up.” “I’m sorry,” I lied. “I’m really sorry,” I lied again. I wasn’t sorry at all. And I was glad that I could warm up with a few practice lies before trying my whopper. “And did you destroy all that crap?” She asked. “I did,” I lied, the big lie. “I deleted my main copy,” I embellished my lie. (I had not deleted it,) “and then two copies on USB sticks, I lied, (I had it on only one USB stick, and I had not deleted the copy), “and then I deleted copies on each of my two computers,” I lied (I had not deleted it on either.) “Oh, and I almost forgot,” I lied (I had carefully practiced saying ‘I almost forgot,’) “I went through my email. I’d been sending myself backup copies periodically. I de­ leted them all,” I lied. (My backup copies were fine). “Good!” she said. “Was it hard for you?” “It was terrible,” I lied. “It was like getting a limb chopped off,” I lied. “That was the real reason I didn’t show up for Chapter 1,” I lied. “I was bawling my eyes out,” I lied. “Well,” she said briskly. “Let’s get started. You’re up against a deadline so I’m going to get some help inspiring you.” “Alright,” I said, “Who’s going to help?” “Your favorite authors,” said the muse. “I’m going to set up a brainstorming meeting in what will eventually be called Brainstorming Meeting on page 149. Make a list of the authors that are your heroes. I’ll get them all to come to the meeting. With those brilliant people we’ll generate some great ideas, and you’ll have the inspiration that you need.” “How can you get them to come?” I asked. “A writer can’t be successful without a muse,” lied the muse. “All your heroes have muses. You tell me who you want and I’ll contact their muses and get them to bring them. We’re part of the old muse network, and all friends on Musebook.” “And they’ll come?” I asked. “Of course,” said the muse. “Authors always listen to their muses. Otherwise,” she drew her hand across her throat, “they might as well be dead.” “What about dead authors?” I asked. “No problem,” said the Muse. “When you create something, you live as long as your work survives. Any author who you like is alive, even if dead.” “Wow,” I said. “That’s great. I’ll make a list right away.” “And I’ll send out the invitations as soon as I’ve got your list. And I’ll send them copies of what you wrote. That way they’ll understand what you can do and what you can’t.” “Sounds terrific!” I said. “I can hardly wait to see what happens!” “I think you’re going to be surprised,” said the muse. “Very surprised.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Antichapter 12: The Second Step “He’s destroyed his draft,” said the antimuse. “So part one of the plan is complete.” “Great,” said the Voice. “And he’s making a list of authors to invite to the meeting I’m going to set up. I told him that they would help him,” said the antimuse. “Great,” said the Voice. “You said they wouldn’t help, but you didn’t tell me why.” “I didn’t?” Asked the antimuse. “No,” said the Voice. “You told me it was a three part plan, and you cut yourself off in the middle of the second part.” “I did?” Asked the antimuse. “Yes,” said the Voice. “Well,” said the antimuse. “I told him I’d invite them so they can help. But I’m not going to invite them.” “So no one will show up!” Said the Voice. “Brilliant! That should really discourage him.” “Actually I’m planning something different,” said the antimuse. “What?” Asked the Voice. “No time,” said the antimuse. “Got to get back to the story.” Refs: 11He Gave Up136 13The Third Step146 Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 3: Writers I Admire What a great idea! I thought. That muse is great! I thought. She’ll get the writers who are my heroes to help me! That’s so cool! I thought. I stopped typing thoughts with exclamation marks and started writing writer names. Kurt Vonnegut, of course. And Neal Stephenson and Tom Wolfe, I wrote. Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Anthony Trollope, PJ O’Rourke, Robert Heinlein, I added. Gordon Dickson, Har­ lan Ellison, Frederick Pohl, I wrote. And Selden Edwards. Selden was the only published author I knew. His first novel, The Little Book, had taken him forty years to write. It had self-referential elements. He might have some practical knowledge. His second, The Lost Prince, had taken just a few years. Selden’s a friend. I’m sure he’ll help. “Or course, I’ll help,” said Selden. “I’m one of your NaNoWriMo writing buddies this year. And we’re only a day away from starting. You need to get this wrapped up.” Selden was right. I was determined to finish this draft, print it and have friends and family review it while I worked on my next book, and he worked on his. And I can invite people who have helped me understand how to write! I thought. They’ve helped me too. Annie LeMott, Julia Cameron, Brenda Euland, Barbara Baig, I wrote. And people who wrote things that influenced the thinking that went inot this book. Simon Singh, Norman Doidge, Daniel Khaneman, Steven Pinker, Malcom Gladdwell, Jesus, Buddha, I wrote. And Ron Hubbard, I added. Some of his ideas are here. It’s going to be great! I thought. I can just imagine what it’s going to be like. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies The End Is In Sight “Are you smiling?” Asked my metanovel. “I feel like you’re smiling.” “I am,” I said. “Why?” Asked my metanovel. “Because I’ve figured out how you end,” I say. “You have?” Asked my metanovel. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard that before,” said my inner critic. “No you haven’t,” I said. “You’re thinking of the time that I reorganized the chapters. I didn’t say I knew how it ended. I said that I knew how I needed to organize it.” “I don’t remember that,” said Mom. “That’s because this is the first draft you’ve been in,” I said. “It happened earlier in time, in another draft, but later in the book. I’ll point it out when we get to it.” “So what does this mean?” Asked my metanovel. “It means you’re going to be finished,” I said. “There will be more drafts, but I know what I’m aiming for.” “I’m sure it’s a stupid ending,” said my inner critic. “Actually it’s a very good one,” I said. “I can hardly wait,” said my inner critic. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies The Imagined Meeting The conference room was large, well lit, and well appointed. An enormous teak table sat in the center, ringed by chairs. They were my heroes, and they were all there, seated around the conference table, muses by their sides, copies of my draft in front of them. A few were leafing through their copies. And they were smiling! Several were talking with one another, or with their muses. And they were smiling! They were smiling! “You’re imagining this,” said my inner critic. “It isn’t happening. Get real!” “He can imagine it if he wants to,” said Mom. “He’s my son. He can imagine whatever he wants. Go ahead and imagine.” “Right,” said the metanovel to me. “Listen to your Mom. Go ahead.” “Stupid,” muttered my inner critic. I imagined. My muse stood. The room quieted. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “You’ve all read the draft. It’s pretty much crap. He’s destroyed out all his copies and I’m going to destroy these as soon as we’re done. We want to help write something that’s not crap. Maybe even something that’s mediocre.” Anne LeMott raised her hand. She’d written Bird by Bird, one of my favorite books on the craft of writing. “I’ve been writing a lot longer than he has,” she said, “and what I wrote in Bird by Bird is still true: the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.” She turned to me. “It’s a shitty first draft. And you should be proud of it.” “It’s not a first draft,” said the muse. “He’s about twenty drafts into it. And it’s still crap.” “It doesn’t matter,” Annie said to the muse. She turned back to me. “Don’t worry if it’s perfect. Don’t even worry if it’s still crap twenty drafts in. Remember what I said about perfectionism: it will keep you cramped and insane your whole life. It’s the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft, a shitty second draft, a shitty twentieth draft. Perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hit­ ting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it. In other words: just enjoy what you are doing.” “That’s not what she said in Bird by Bird,” said my inner critic. “You’re misquoting her. Can’t you do anything right?” “He’s paraphrasing me,” said Annie. “And he’s doing a fine job adapting what I wrote to this context.” “Stupid,” muttered my inner critic. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “Quiet,” Kurt Vonnegut said to my critic “I agree with Annie,” said Julia Cameron, who wrote The Artist’s Way: A spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. “Don’t listen to the voice that demands perfectionism. Perfec­ tionism has never heard that anything worth doing is worth doing badly—and that if we allow ourselves to do something badly we might in time become quite good at it. Perfec­ tionism measures our beginner’s work against the finished work of masters. Perfection­ ism thrives on comparison and competition. It doesn’t know how to say, ‘Good try,’ or ‘Job well done.’” From Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance “Hey!” said the muse. “Thank you,” I said. “ And thank you for Morning Pages. It’s helped me a lot.” I’d written three longhand pages, every morning as Julia had recommended in The Artist’s Way. I’d kept it up consistently for three years (Three years!!) Every morning, three pages. There was no life-changing transformation, but I’d found that whenever I ran into problems, pulling out my notebook and writing pages cleared my mind wonderfully. I realized I needed to get back to that practice. “You do,” said the metanovel. “You really do.” “I know,” I said. “No, really,” said the metanovel. “You need to practice that practice.” “You need to expect setbacks,” said Steven Pressfield, who wrote The War of Art, and Do The Work. “As I told you in The War of Art, ‘The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell, whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and hu­ miliation.’” “That’s a good point,” said Annie. “Hey!” said the muse. “And that fear that you wrote about?” Steven said. “Yes?” “That’s a good sign,” he said. “Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do. Remember one rule of thumb: the more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it.” ― Steven Pressfield, The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks & Win Your Inner Creative Battles “Wow!” I said. “So I’m not a pussy for feeling afraid.” “Hey!” said the muse. “That’s right Steven,” said Mom. “And remember what Marianne Williamson said. ‘Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.’” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies It was completely unlike my mother to say something like that. “Mom, where did you find that quote?” “I’m in a dead people’s book club,” she said, and shrugged. “You’ve got a lot of time when you’re dead.” “Stupid,” muttered my inner critic. “Quiet,” Kurt Vonnegut said to my critic Brenda Euland spoke up. She was author of If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit. She’d been a prolific writer and had taught writing for years. “Remember what I wrote,” she said. “No writing is a waste of time. With every sentence you write, you have learned something. It has done you good.” “I remember that,” I said. “Remember me saying: Everyone is talented, original and has something important to say?” She asked. “Yes,” I said. “Apply it to yourself,” she said. “You are talented. You are original. And you have something important to say. Keep looking for your own authentic voice. When you find it, your metanovel will come together for you.” “Hey!” “Hey! Hey!” said the muse. “What?” I asked. “I must have called you a dozen times,” she said. “What’s going on?” “Oh,” I said, “I was just imagining meeting some of the writers on my list.” “No need to imagine them,” said the muse. “Give me the list and I’ll get them here for real.” “Do you really think you can get them to come?,” I asked. “Of course,” the muse smiled. “In fact I guarantee it. Every one that I invite is going to come.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Antichapter 13: The Third Step “I’ve got the list of his heroes,” said the antimuse. “Great,” said the Voice. “The one you’re going to ignore.” “I never said I was going to ignore the list,” said the antimuse. “I said I wasn’t going to in­ vite them. I told you. I’ve got something worse planned.” “What’s worse than them not showing up?” Asked the Voice. “I would think that would really depress him.” “I’m not out to depress him,” said the antimuse. “I’m out to destroy him.” “Good!” Said the Voice. “How will you do that?” “Instead of his heroes, I’m inviting antiheroes,” said the antimuse. “They’re going to rip him apart. Just tear him up.” The antimuse laughed. “When they’re done, he’ll never write another word. Not another word. Then he’s ready for the third step.” “And what’s that?” Asked the Voice. “I call it the Joseph Beller finale,” said the antimuse. “I get him to see that suicide is his only answer.” Refs: 12The Second Step140 14God’s In The Meeting!152 Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies The List “Here’s the list,” I said to the muse. “These are my heroes.” “You’ve already given her the list,” said the metanovel. “And she’s not here.” “I did?” I asked. “She’s not?” “Yes you did,” said the metanovel. “And no, she’s not. That sentence is left over from an earlier draft.” The metanovel was right. Before the author had written The Imagined Meeting on page 143 he’d created this section as placeholder for a scene in which he gives the list to the muse. He’d written just one line: ‘“Here’s the list,” I said to the muse, “These are my heroes.”’ Then he’d gone back and worked on earlier parts of the metanovel, eventually arriving here. “That’s right,” said the metanovel.” While you were writing The Imagined Meeting you came up with the idea of having the muse interrupt you and get the list.” “So why is this chapter still here,” I asked. “Why didn’t I just delete it?” “I don’t know,” said the metanovel. “But I think it has something to do with what you real­ ized on page 142, The End Is In Sight. The Not Quite Omniscient Narrator did know. The metanovel was right. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Get To The Meeting “You’ve got another ten crappy practice chapters between here and the meeting,” said my in­ ner critic. “They don’t add anything, except chapters, pages, and time.” “I’ll look at them,” I said. I looked. “You’re right,” I said. I deleted them. “You’re an idiot for listening to me,” said my inner critic. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 4: Brainstorming Meeting The conference room was large, well lit, and well appointed, just as he’d imagined. An enormous teak table sat in the center, ringed by chairs, also as he’d imagined. The author and the muse arrived early. A few minutes later Metatron arrived, accompanied by two other Seraphim shouting “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts. All the earth is filled with Her glory.” He hadn’t imagined that. Neither had the muse. “I’m here to prepare the meeting for God’s Presence,” Metatron said. “I didn’t invite God,” said the muse. “God does not need an invitation,” said Metatron. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts. All the earth is filled with Her glory.” He squinted at the muse. “Do you have a problem with that? I’d advise against that. You really don’t want to f*** with God.” The muse paused. “No,” she said. “No problem.” “Good,” said Metatron. “He looked around the room. The room’s OK,” he said, “but God sits at the head of the table. It’s in Her contract. You need to move.” “I don’t remember any contract,” I said. “He doesn’t remember a contract,” the muse repeated. Metatron ignored the muse. “Is this your signature?” Metatron asked, thumbing through a the stack of papers that had appeared in his hands as I typed the words ‛stack of papers.’ He found the page he wanted and pointed. “It’s my signature, but I don’t remember signing anything” I said. “That’s because you haven’t signed it yet,” said Metatron. “You’re going to sign it in Epi­ logue 3, which will be called Retroactive Legal Details.” Metatron thumbed through the pages. “Section Seven specifies that God gets to sit at the head of the table in any chapter in which both She and a table are present. ” “I’ve got to make a phone call,” said the muse. She slipped away to an antichapter. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Reorganization “Shit!” I said. I was in Portland, Maine, in a the Starbucks on Congress Street. “This is com­ pletely screwed up!” “What?” Asked my metanovel. “I’ve got you organized all wrong!” “What do you mean?” Asked the metanovel. “The sequence of your chapters,” I said. “I’ve got to change them.” “Again?” Asked the metanovel. “Didn’t you talk about it in The End Is In Sight on page 142?” “That was a forward-reference to this section,” I said. “That’s when I realized it. This is when I’m going to do it. There’s only been one reorganization.” “Is it a big job?” Asked the metanovel. “It will take a few days,” I answered. “And then I’ve got to do another editing pass. I’m sure that there will be gaps. And I’m not quite sure about all of the sequencing. I may have to remove some of your chapters.” “That sounds horrible,” said the metanovel. “Is it going to hurt?” “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve removed whole segments before. Stuff that just didn’t work. That didn’t hurt did it?” “I don’t know,” said the metanovel. “I only came to life a few drafts ago. I can’t remember anything before then.” Indeed the metanovel could not. A few drafts before the metanovel came to life the author had stopped deleting chapters and paragraphs that didn’t work and had started to move them to the end of his draft. The draft was now 206 pages, would grow to 371, including all the draft ma­ terial he hadn’t used, and would shrink to 216 when he got rid of the parts that would never work. “Can’t you just forget about reorganizing me and just finish me?” Asked my metanovel. “I don’t need to be perfect, you know.” “I’m not trying to make you perfect,” I said. “I’m trying to make you something that I ima­ gine.” “Is there something wrong with me?” Asked the metanovel. “No,” I said. “But there’s something that I imagine that I want you to evolve into, and you’re not there yet. But you will get there. I’m determined. I’m not going to quit until you’re there.” “How will you know when that happens?” Asked the metanovel. “I don’t know how I’ll know,” I said. “But I know I’ll know.” The author was wrong. He did know how he’d know. He just did not know that he knew how he’d know. “You were right,” the author said to the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator, a few drafts later. “It’s in a section that I hadn’t written yet.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “I know how I’ll know,” he said to the metanovel, “When I stop imagining that I’ve ima­ gined what you are, and realize that I’ve actually imagined you, I’ll be done. Or a few drafts from done. Look at page 119, Imagining The Metanovel. That’s what I need to do.” The author was right. He’d learned a lot, writing draft after draft. He was evolving the metanovel, as he’d realized when he wrote page 124, Evolving The Metanovel, which at one time was later in the book than Imagining The Metanovel but was always written earlier in time. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” said the metanovel. “I really want to be complete.” “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I said, but that doesn’t matter. “I have faith. I didn’t under­ stand how important faith was until I wrote Faith, which will now be on page 156.” “And now I know what I imagine you to be,” the author said, many drafts later. “And I even know what I’m doing.” Indeed, this time the author did. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies Antichapter 14: God’s In The Meeting! “Pick up the fucking phone,” said the antimuse impatiently as she started to dial. “Hello,” said the Voice, without waiting for it to ring. “We’ve got a problem,” she said. “God’s in the meeting.” “Is that bad?” Asked the Voice? “She’s God,” said the antimuse. “She’s going to know that I’m lying. She’s omniscient, for God’s sake!” “I’ll see what I can do,” said the Voice. “I know someone who might be able to help.” “He’d better be quick,” said the antimuse. “The meeting’s starting in the next section.” “Don’t worry,” said the Voice. “If it doesn’t get fixed in this draft, there’s always the next one.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 5: The Authors Arrive “So,” said Metatron to me as we watched the departing muse, “are you moving?” “Yes,” I said. I slid my computer from the head of the table to the seat to the right. “You can’t sit at the right hand of God,” Metatron said. “That’s for me. Section 21.” More pages appeared. “You can sit at God’s left, or further down the table.” I nodded, moved my computer to God’s left, and sat down. I left a place for the muse to my left. “Can you ask the other Seraphim to stop saying ‘Holy, Holy?’ I asked. “It’s getting on my nerves.” “They’ll stop when God comes in,” said Metatron, “which She will do after everyone is seated. Section 55, Paragraph 1.” He pointed to more pages that suddenly appeared. “Of course they’ll have to get up again. Section 58, paragraph 2.” Six paragraphs after this chapter started, the muse returned, and just a few minute later, the authors and their muses began to arrive. They were my heroes, and they were coming to help me! Just as I’d imagined. But some­ thing was wrong. They weren’t smiling, as I had imagined. They looked grim. No, worse. Some of them looked at me with unmistakable expressions of contempt. They took their seats, muses by their sides, copies of my draft in front of them. The muses didn’t look like the ones I’d ima­ gined, either. They look hard. And nasty. The authors were frowning. Shaking their heads. Sever­ al were talking with one another, or with their muses. Their voices sounded strident and dispar­ aging. The few laughs that I heard were derisive. The muse stood. The room quieted down. Metatron raised his hand and stood up. “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, all the earth is filled with Her glory,” he said. He gestured and we stood. The door opened and God walked in. She walked to the head of the conference table. She sat down. We sat. God looked at the muse and waved her to continue. “Thank you for coming,” the muse said. “You’ve all read the draft.” Heads nodded in agree­ ment. God just looked at her. “It’s pretty much crap,” she said. Heads nodded more emphatically. God did nothing. “It’s worse than crap,” said Annie LeMott. “I can’t believe how awful it was, It’s just com­ pletely stupid. Its not shitty. It’s shit.” “You see,” said my inner critic. “That’s what I’ve been saying.” I looked away. “I think you’re right,” said the muse. “I was being polite. I didn’t want to discourage him prematurely. It is shit, not crap.” “He deserves the truth,” said Steven Pressfield. “I agree,” said the muse. “That’s why you’re here. I’m a muse he just met and I say it’s crap. He’s tired of listening to his inner critic, who also says it’s crap. You’re his heroes. You are some of the most brilliant writers and teachers of writing in the metauniverse. He’ll believe what you have to say. And if there’s anything that he can do to create something that isn’t total shit, you’ll know what it is.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies There was a long pause. The writers looked at one another. My chest ached. I could feel tears coming. I looked around the room hoping to see a friendly face. Only God’s face, serene, did not register disgust or contempt. Finally Brenda Euland stood up. “I taught writing for nearly fifty years,” she said. She looked at me. “You’ve read my book If You Want to Write, haven’t you?” “Yes,” I said, looking at the floor. “Remember me saying: ‘Everyone is talented, original and has something important to say?’” She asked. “Yes, I do. It was a beautiful thought,” I said. “Well,” she said, and she paused. She waited until I finally looked at her. “You’re the exception. You’re not talented. You’re not original. And you have absolutely nothing important to say.” “That’s it!” God said. “I don’t like the way this chapter is going.” She waved her hand and the chapter ended. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies