Part X: Lessons From The Masters

If at first you don’t succeed, have faith. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 6: Faith God had realized that there was a problem in the story meeting, and… “I don’t need you telling people what I realized,” God snapped at the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator. The Not Quite Omniscient Narrator shut up, but narrated wondering if it would be a good idea to narrate a setting for the scene. “Of course,” said God. “Just don’t try narrating what I’m thinking. You’re not omniscient.” God was right. The Not Quite Omniscient Narrator was not omniscient, hoped to become omniscient, and God could make that happen. There was no sense pissing God off to the point that she wouldn’t help. So the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator sucked it up and sucked up and narrated a setting. They were seated in the corner booth of a God’s favorite bar. God often came here with some of the Seraphim after work. Word got around and the owners changed its name from “The Bar At The End Of The Metauniverse” to “God’s Favorite Bar.” It wasn’t an imaginative name, but it didn’t need to be. It was a minor plot detail. “Good,” said God to the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator. She turned to me. “Now let’s talk about your situation. Why is all this Voice and antimuse, and adversary bullsh** in your metan­ ovel?” “I thought it would make things more interesting,” I said. “You know, create a conflict. I also thought that these characters might help me understand why I don’t do things that I intend to do —like sitting down to write. And exercising, organizing, not procrastinating.” “And did they help you?” Asked God. “Have they helped you in any way?” I thought for a minute. “Other than word count, no,” I said. “I’m making some progress, but they’re not helping me.” “Then you ought to get rid of them,” said God. “If not retroactively, at least proactively. I want this fing metanovel finished. I’ve got universes and metauniverses to create. I’ve got sh to do. So I’m going to help you finish it.” “How are you going to help me finish it?” I asked. “Just speaking hypothetically,” God said, “suppose you believed that you had an omnipotent, omniscient God helping you finish this metanovel? Would that make a difference?” “I don’t mean to be rude,” I said. “But I don’t believe an omnipotent God exists. I don’t be­ lieve that any Gods exist. And—excuse me for saying this—I don’t believe that you exist.” “My existence is irrelevant,” God said. “And your belief is unnecessary. I’m not asking you whether you believe that I do exist or not. I’m asking you whether it would make a difference if you you believed that an omnipotent, omniscient God was helping you.” “You mean just believing that such an entity was helping me?” I asked. “Just believing,” She said. “Existence not required. It’s conditional belief.” “Fine,” I said. “If I believed that I had an omnipotent God helping me then it might make me more confident and that would help. It doesn’t guarantee anything, but it would help.” “Well, there you are,” said God. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “Where? I don’t understand.” “Just believe that I’m helping you.” “How can I believe that you’re helping me when I don’t believe you exist?” “Capital Y in You, when you mean Me,” God said. “There’s no need to be rude.” “I can’t believe that I’m arguing with a figment of my imagination,” I said. God shook her head and muttered something about human stupidity. “That’s part of your trouble,” She said. “Why do you have trouble believing that you’re arguing with a figment of your imagination when that’s exactly what you’re doing?” I thought about it. I was arguing with a God that I’d invented. She was a figment of my ima­ gination. So why did I have trouble believing it? “OK,” I said. “You’re right. I’m arguing with an imaginary character. It’s pretty dumb.” “What’s dumb is arguing with an imaginary character when the imaginary character is smarter than you are,” God said. “And I am. You should be listening, not arguing.” “OK,” I said. “I’m listening.” “How far do you think you can jump?” God asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe three feet.” “OK,” said God. “Let’s make it three feet. Let’s suppose you can jump three feet.” “Where are we going with this?” I asked. “Trust Me,” God said. “Trust Me even though I’m imaginary. Now let’s suppose you can jump three feet.” “OK,” I said. “Now what?” God waved her hand and suddenly they were no longer in the bar. They stood, out in the open, on a small island of rock thousands of feet above a canyon. On three sides he saw nothing. He didn’t dare look over the edge… “Not you,” God said to the Not Quite Omniscient Narrator. “I want him narrating now. I want readers to experience this from the first person perspective, not the third. I started narrating. I felt nervous narrating in front of God. “I want you to narrate, not metanarrate,” said God. “Nobody gives a sh** about metanarra­ tion. Narrate what’s happening. Start with what just happened. God waved her hand and suddenly we were no longer in the bar. We stood, out in the open, on a small island of rock thousands of feet above a canyon. On three sides I saw nothing. I didn’t dare look over the edge… “That’s better,” God said. “Now Look over the fing edge. Don’t be such a pussy.” I looked over the edge. A river wound its way through the canyon, thousands of feet below me. “Nice touch, narrating that river,” said God, encouraging me. On the fourth side was safety: a highland plain that seemed to stretch forever. But to reach safety I’d have to jump a gap between my rocky island and the plain. It seemed miles wide but in fact was only… “Three feet,” said God. “Three fing feet. Exactly three feet. The distance you said you could jump.” “That was on the ground,” I said. “Up here, maybe an inch.” Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “Bullsh**,” said God. “If you can jump three feet on the ground, you can jump three feet up here.” I looked at the gap. My legs were shaking. I could hardly stand, much less jump. “What’s the matter?” God asked. “I’m scared.” I said. “Of course you are,” God said. “I set it up that way. Now listen. Suppose you were abso­ lutely positively sure you could get across. How would you feel then.” “Not scared.” “If you were sure you could get across, could you get across?” “I suppose.” “So here’s where we are. If you stay here you die of hunger.” “I’m not hungry,” I protested. “Yes, you are,” God said. She was right. Suddenly I was very hungry. “And thirsty,” God said. And suddenly my throat was parched. “Trust me. Stay here you starve. Or you die of exposure.” The temperature dropped twenty degrees. I started to shiver. “If you jump in fear, you’re not going to make it. You’re going to fall and die. Stay, you die; jump in fear you die. You’ve really only got one choice.” “This is all just imaginary,” I said. God looked at me. “Isn’t it?” I asked. “Stay and die. Jump in fear and die,” God repeated. “You have only one choice.” “Which is?” “Faith,” said God. “Faith in yourself. Faith in Me. It doesn’t matter. If you believe you’re going to make it then you won’t be as afraid. Your knees won’t knock so much and you’ll make it across. So I’m going to tell you, no problem. You can jump three feet. Now do it!” I looked across. It seemed like I could do it. Then I looked down. And down. And down and down and down and down and… “Snap out of it!” God said. “You can jump three fing feet. Have faith! I’m God and I say you can do it.” I took a deep breath and imagined. I imagined God was helping me. I imagined faith would help. I imagined I had the power myself. I imagined taking a few steps back, focusing my atten­ tion on my take-off point, running and—I couldn’t. I tried again. I imagined myself taking a few steps back, focusing my attention on my take-off point, running and—I still couldn’t. And then I remembered. Decide. Imagine. Practice! Practice! Practice! I imagined trying again. And again. And then, in my imagination, I could jump. I imagined again. And again. And each time it was easier. Finally, I was ready. I took a deep breath. I took a few steps back. I took another deep breath. I remembered how I’d done it. I focused my attention on my take-off point. I started running and—jumped! I closed my eyes. A moment of sheer terror. And I felt myself land! Solid ground! I did it! I fell forward to hands and knees. I opened my eyes. “See,” said God. “You could do it.” “But what if I had failed?” I asked. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies “You’d be dead,” said God. “And frankly it wouldn’t have been much of a loss. But that’s not the point.” “I see,” I said. And I saw. “Good,” said God. “Let’s get back to the bar.” She snapped her fingers and suddenly… Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 7: Paradox Lost …we were back in the bar, with a pitcher of beer and two chilled glasses in front of us. God poured. “My next best invention,” She said, “after evolution and the scientific method, was faith. She took a swig. “Let’s think about that little ordeal I put you through. Faith saved your life, didn’t it.” “Yes,” I admitted. “And it’s saved other people’s lives, hasn’t it?” God asked. “Doesn’t faith sometimes give people the courage do so something exceptional?” “Yes, but…” “But what?” “Well, you get these people thinking that they can cure cancer by faith…” “That’s not faith,” God said. “That’s stupidity. They’re fing aholes. There is a differ­ ence, you know. When I stuck you on that ledge you had a fourth alternative. You could have prayed for a miracle. Stay: stupid. You die. Jump in fear? Also stupid. Jump with faith? Smart. Pray for a miracle? Stupid. How can I perform a miracle, when I don’t exist?” “Now you’re saying you don’t exist?” “Of course not!” God said. “Aren’t you fing listening. Could a God like me possibly ex­ ist?” “Then why does it make more sense to have faith in a non-existent God than to pray for a miracle?” “Because even though I don’t exist, faith exists,” God said. “Faith really exists. And it exists because you create it. And you create it because you fing can. Just don’t expect your faith to result in something that violates My laws of physics. They’re My fing laws of physics, not My fing suggestions. Any moron who thinks God is going to break Her own laws just be­ cause someone starts to whine can stuff it!” God finished her glass and poured herself another. “So use faith when there’s no better answer?” I asked. “Use faith when it makes sense. And don’t use it when it doesn’t make sense. Atheists never use it. Do they think that a little faith is going to rot their fing brains? They should have more faith in their brains than that. Why the f** would anyone insist on being miserable by denying faith when a little faith would help them?” “But if you know that there is no God, doesn’t it create a paradox if you have faith in a God that you know doesn’t exist?” “What’s the f*** is wrong with a little paradox?” God asked. “Are you serious?” I asked in answer. “Why is a paradox such a f**ing problem?” God asked back. I thought about it for a while. Why should paradoxes be problems? I couldn’t think of a reas­ on. “I guess it’s not a problem.” I said. “Just strange.” “And sometimes useful,” God said. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies I agreed. “Have faith when it makes sense,” God said. “Live with a paradox when it makes sense. If calling on a nonexistent God helps you have faith, and having faith helps get the job done, that’s great. Just don’t fool yourself. It’s you that’s creating faith. If you have faith in Me and it helps, then it’s your faith that helped you out. Not me. I’ve got better things to do. “Now let’s get back and finish that stupid meeting.” God snapped her fingers and.. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies New Chapter 8: End of Meeting …we were back in the meeting. I looked around. The faces showed boredom, irritation, disdain, contempt. No one in that room, except for God, had the slightest interest in helping me. “Of course not,” said the metanovel. “You wrote it that way.” “I know,” I said. “I thought it would work, but it hasn’t” I turned to the muse. “You’re not a muse,” I said. “You’re not even an antimuse.” “What am I then,” she sneered. “You’re a plot device,” I said, “and a failed plot device at that.” No one spoke, moved, or typed for several minutes. “You can’t get rid of me!” She screamed. “You need a subplot! You need antagonistic char­ acters! You need conflict! Your writing sucks! Everything you’ve written is crap. Without me you’re nothing! You’re going to fail! You’ll never finish your metanovel without me! You’ll end up depressed! And you’ll end up killing yourself!” “You’ve served your purpose,” I said. “This subplot is over.” I stopped typing for a moment, then began again. “Let’s go talk,” I said to God. “This chapter is over.” And it was. Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dmmies