Part II: The Metanovel

If at first you don’t succeed,
declare success.

Epilogue 1: It’s Done!

It’s done!

Finally, my novel is done!

I didn’t think I could do it, but I did.

It was hard. In fact it was nearly impossible for me. The odds against it were enormous.

But it was done.

And I was a different person for having written it.

* * * * *

Or I hope I will be. Once I finish writing it. Which won’t happen until I’ve started. Which is what I’m doing right now. Starting. I mean right now, while I’m writing this, not right now while I’m editing it. Or now while you’re reading it.

The six paragraphs that you see at the top were in the first draft of the metanovel. They were among the first words I wrote. I haven’t edited them because they are historically significant, and for another reason that I’ve now forgotten. But one reason is enough.

It’s true that I changed the number of asterisks. Originally there were ten, but when I edited the first draft I realized that ten was or were too many depending on dialect. But isn’t that what editing is for? I changed it to five. Five asterisks have held up through many subsequent edits, but I’m willing to change the number if someone makes a convincing argument.

“You are an idiot,” said my inner critic. I ignored it.

“Keep going,” said the metanovel. “Finish me.”

Now I’m writing a draft version of this nearly complete paragraph. Or I had written it when I was writing the first draft. Now I’m editing it. And editing it again. And again. And now you’re reading it, of course.

It’s not much. Or it wasn’t. But it’s a start! Or was. And I can’t hope to finish, which I still haven’t done—in this draft, anyway—unless I start. So I’m starting. Or I was starting, back when I started.

“I think I’ve said this before,” said my inner critic, later, “but it deserves repeating: this is stupid.” I ignored it.

“Keep going,” said the metanovel.

I don’t have a plot, or characters, or a setting, or a theme. I don’t know what to call my novel. Right now, as I’m writing this first draft, my working title is “The World’s Stupidest Novel.” It serves as a placeholder. I’ll change it when I know what I’m writing about. It also serves as a reminder of my deliberately low expectations.

You might ask: why am I writing the epilogue first? Or rather, if you were asking it, you’d ask “Why are you writing the epilogue first.”

If you had asked, which at this point I’m not saying you’ve done, I would have answered: “I have no idea what else to write. So I’m going to imagine success and declare victory. Why not?”

Really, why not? Not knowing what this book will be about hasn’t stopped me from starting it. Not knowing what this sentence will be about hasn’t stopped me from starting it either. And not knowing won’t stop me from starting and then eventually finishing this sentence, as I am confident that I will, sooner or later, even though it’s a convoluted self-referential sentence, and full of subordinate clauses, like that one, and these others, and this one. And it won’t stop me from starting this next sentence, or finishing it. Or starting and finishing a fragment like this. Or this.

Or writing this fragment and calling it a paragraph.

“Writing crap like this won’t get the job done,” says my inner critic.

“Writing crap like that is getting the job done,” says the metanovel. “Look at me! I’m a three pages longer. Go me! Go you!”

Epilogues Go At the End

“Read this definition of epilogue,” says my inner critic after it had had time to make a new, more reasoned assault.

“Which definition?” I ask.

“The one right below this line,” says my inner critic.

“An epilogue or epilog is a piece of writing at the end of a work of literature or drama, usually used to bring closure to the work.”

“That’s from Wikipedia,” my inner critic says. “So it’s right. Your so-called epilogue is at the beginning. So it’s wrong.”

“Maybe it is,” I say to my inner critic. “But it’s historically correct. That epilogue really was one of the first things I wrote. I don’t know why. It just happened that way.”

Technically, I wrote the epilogue after I wrote Chapter 1, but it seemed wrong to leave it there. I moved it to the beginning not long after I finished Chapter 2.

“But now you’re editing” says my inner critic during one of my editing passes. “You can now put that stupid epilogue at the end of your stupid book. Or better yet, you can delete it entirely. Or even better yet still, you can delete the entire stupid book.”

“I like it where it is,” I say. “I won’t delete it.”

“So do I,” says the metanovel. “I don’t want it, or the rest of me to be deleted.”

“As things have evolved,” I say to my inner critic after I finish the first draft. “having the epilogue at the front turns out to be more than historically important. It belongs in the front. That’s the reason I forgot. It was a factor in my success. It helped me imagine what I wanted to do. I did get my first draft done in thirty days. Now I’m going to finish my edits in thirty more.”

“You’re way past thirty more days.” says my inner critic, way past thirty days later. “When did you finish your draft? November? What month is it now?”

“February.”

“And Now?”

“April.”

“And now?” asks my inner critic, sneering.

“I won’t say,” I say, to avoid endlessly adding and answering ‘And now?’ I didn’t need the word count any more.

“Keep working on your metanovel,” God says.

“Yes,” says the metanovel. “Finish me.”

I listen to the voice of God and the voice of the metanovel, and not the voice of my inner critic. I keep going. Retroactively, in a later draft, I decide to include a table of contents.

“Where?” Asks my inner critic. “I don’t see a stupid table of contents.”

“Oh look!” Says the metanovel. “It starts on my next page! And I’m not just 20 pages long. I’m 216! I can hardly wait to find out what I’m about!”