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!

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 deleted 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.”