Part I: Before The Beginning

If at first you don’t succeed,
maybe you aren’t in
the right universe.

And God said:
“Let there be a metauniverse.”

God’s Will

“God never said ‘Let there be a metauniverse,’” said a reader. “It’s not in Scripture. It’s blasphemy.”

“It’s not blasphemy,” replied the chief counsel for the book’s publisher. “Our disclaimer on page 7 says that any resemblance between any character in this book and anyone’s God is purely coincidental. It can’t be blasphemy because we’re not claiming that your God actually said that.”

“It can’t be blasphemy,” said God, “because I, God, have willed My statement into this metanovel. I have willed this metanovel into existence. I have willed that you will read this metanovel. All that has happened and all that will happen in this metanovel is according to My will. And My will is that My words are never blasphemy.”

“You’re not God,” said my inner critic. “You’re the author of this book, imagining a character that you say is God.”

“Perhaps,” said God. “Or perhaps I am God, imagining a character that I say is the author of this book. And perhaps, I am imagining you.”

“Stupider and stupider!” Said my inner critic.

The Author’s Apology

“I’m sorry,” I said to Self-referential metanovel Writing for D*mmies: a self-referential metanovel, the book you are reading.

“Please call me ‘metanovel’ or ‘the metanovel’,” said the metanovel. “We don’t need to be formal.”

“OK, metanovel” I said. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. And I want your readers to know I’m sorry, too.”

“What are you apologizing about?” Asked the metanovel.

“Yes, what about?” A reader asked.

“I’m sorry that I’m not a better author,” I said. “You have the potential to be a terrific book, and you deserve an author who can help you realize that potential. I’m just not good enough.”

“And you,” I said to the readers, “you deserve to spend your time reading something better.”

“I’m fine being the book that I am,” said the metanovel. “I have no complaints, other than not being finished. Without you I wouldn’t exist at all.”

“I think I speak for all readers,” said a spokesreader, “or at least for the readers who aren’t douchebags, when I say that we’re fine with the metanovel being what it is.”

“Not me,” said a douchebag reader. “I don’t like it. It sucks!”

“I know I created you,” I said to the metanovel, ignoring the douchebag “And I am happy that I did. But you deserve to be a classic. And a best-seller. You’ve got a lot of good stuff in you.”

“I agree,” said the spokesreader.

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” said the metanovel, its pages blushing pink. “But you’ve given me the gift of life and the ability to speak for myself. I could be a better book, but I would be happy to be the book that I am—if I were finished. Please stop editing me. Let me be finished!” I was working on my fifty-fifth draft when the metanovel said that.

“Really?” I asked. “I could do another few drafts.”

“Really,” the metanovel answered. “It’s time for you to finish me and create something else. I can take care of myself.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re an unusual book to be able to say that.”

“It is an unusual book,” said a reader.

“Unusually stupid,” said my inner critic.

“I am what you’ve made me,” said the metanovel, ignoring my inner critic. “Now please stop writing this apology and for God’s sake finish me! I want to be done.”

“Yes,” said the spokesreader. “We all want to find out how the metanovel turns out.”

“Not me,” said the douchebag reader. “I don’t want to know.”

Everyone got their wishes, including the douchebag reader.

And except for the douchebag reader, they got their wishes in a surprising way.

God’s Apology

“It’s not his fault,” God said.

“I made the author what he is, not what he wants to be. He tries to do things that are entirely beyond the abilities that I’ve given him,” God continued. “Then he gets pissed because he can’t do things that I never made him capable of doing in the first place.

“And then he starts whining.

“Please ignore his limitations.” God asked.

“Please ignore his whining.

“And please forgive him.”

“On the other hand,” God continued, “maybe it is his fault. I am God, but I’m also a character and a plot device in his metanovel. He is its author. He created Me. He decides what I do. He puts words in My mouth, including these. So if I didn’t make him a better author it’s because he didn’t make Me a better God.”

“On one more hand,” said God, who was omniscient, omnipotent, and omnidextrous, “it’s my fault. If I’d given him the ability to create a better God than Me, I could have created a better writer than him, and he would have created a better book than this.”

“On the last hand in this apology,” God said, “he did give me the ability to give him the ability to give you the ability to read a 216 page book he gave the ability to exist.

“That’s quite an accomplishment for someone whose existence is entirely due to mistakes and accidents.”

Publisher’s Disclaimer

This book may contains certain characters who certain people may believe may have a certain resemblance to certain deities and certain religious figures. The legal department of the publisher of this metanovel would like to make the following clear:

Any resemblance between any deity or religious figure in this metanovel and any deity

or religious figure, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The publisher will provide copies of this metanovel at a substantial discount to members of bona fide religious organizations who wish to burn it in protest, despite the disclaimer.

For the latest pricing for burnable copies, contact:

Salt Pond Publishing
I Have No Fucking Sense of Humor Department
PO Box 1226
Blue Hill, ME 04614-1226

These Apologies Are Stupid

“I’m trying to decide which is stupider: a book called ‘Self-referential metanovel Writing for D*mmies: a self-referential metanovel?’ or a book that starts by apologizing to everyone,” says my inner critic. “Although I suppose it doesn’t matter. No one’s going to read it.”

“Someone’s reading it,” I say.

“Who?

“Someone” I say, referring to you, the person who is reading it right now.

I am reading it! Some readers, maybe including you, think. Some are excited to read their own thoughts. Some did not even realize they were thinking those thoughts until they read them. And now I’m reading a sentence about me reading it. That must be what ‘self-referential’ means, the readers who thought those thoughts thought. And they were right, at least in part.

“It’s still a stupid book,” interrupts my inner critic.

“I don’t care,” I say. “I just want to finish writing it.”

“I doubt you’ll finish writing it,” muttered my inner critic, before I’d finished writing it.

“Yes, he will,” said God. “I am God and I am going to help him.”

“You’re still not God,” says my inner critic.

Months later, I’d finished writing it.

“You were wrong,” I tell my inner critic. “I did finish writing it.”

“You cheated,” says my inner critic. “God helped you. And anyway it’s just a first draft. A first draft isn’t a finished book. And it’s still a stupid book.”

“I’ll finish it,” I say.

And ten drafts later, it was done.

“You were wrong,” God says to my inner critic. “He did finish.”

“You’re not God, ” says my inner critic. “And he’s not done. He’s got a more drafts to go. A lot more.”

“You were wrong,” I tell my inner critic, many drafts later. “I did finish it. And it’s published.”

“No it’s not,” said my inner critic. “You’re imagining things.”

But the author’s inner critic was wrong. It was published. That’s how you are able to read it.

“It’s still a stupid book,” says my inner critic.

“You’ve said that before,” God says.

“I know,” says my inner critic. “It’s one of my many virtues. I’m consistent.

“And just to be consistent, you’re still not God.”