Prologue 2: And God Said: “Let There Be Light! Dammit!”

Novels and metanovels follow inviolable rules. A novel must take place in a universe. A metanovel must take place in a metauniverse. Until a metauniverse exists, rules limit what a metanovel’s author can write. This list is fairly boring, as is this paragraph.

A metanovel author can can write apologies and disclaimers, can explain improbabilities, can have God speak, can have an inner critic criticize. Beyond that there’s little else a metanovel author can do. It gets boring for the author and boring for the readers. Like it is right now. Boring. Boring. Boring.

A metanovel author has just one way to relieve the boredom: write a prologue in which a metauniverse is created. Then anything goes. The rules say that such a prologue must begin with two initial paragraphs, much like the paragraphs above, that explain the existence of rules, the need for a metauniverse, why very little is happening, and most of the things that can happen. Such paragraphs are boring, and must acknowledge that. They must be followed by a paragraph, much like this one, that explains the prior paragraphs, explains itself, and explains that the prologue in which it is contained can have more paragraphs, but if and only if these paragraphs describe the creation of a metauniverse, and if and only if the very next paragraph begins with God’s copyrighted words “Let there be Light!©.’ This paragraph is also boring and must so inform the reader. As this one now does.

“Let there be Light!” God says, thus beginning the sequence of paragraphs that will culminate in the creation of the metanovel’s metauniverse. Things can become interesting, but first the author must shift to the past tense because the creation of a metauniverse must logically precede the prologue explaining it. Changing tenses provides tension, which momentarily replaces boredom with an extremely lame pun. Boredom was better, but it’s too late now. We resume the action with an instant replay of God’s words, transitioning to the proper tense:

And God had said “Let there be Light!”

And nothing happened.

And God said, again, and louder: “Let there be Light!”

And again nothing happened.

And God looked around and saw that the earth was without form, and void; darkness was on the face of the deep.

And God was pissed. Seriously pissed.

And God yelled: “Let there be Light! Dammit!! Let there be Light!”

And the spirit of God would have moved upon the face of the waters if there had been any waters, face or no face.

But there were no waters.

And God was getting more and more pissed.

Attention!

Reader! Please pay attention!

Something is going to happen. Something unexpected. Something that will not be boring.

Before you read what happens, please take a moment and read the instructions in the footnote referenced at the end of this sentence¹. Right there. Just back a bit. It’s the only footnote on this page. It’s at the bottom. The instructions in the footnote might seem boring, and they might be boring, but they are also very important. Read the footnote.

Did you read it? Read it again. Please. Carefully. Read it before things happen, which they will, in the next sentence, if this one ever ends, as it is about to, momentarily.

And God yelled, “Where is the f***ing Light?”

And there was no reply.

And God yelled, “Metatron! Where the f*** are you!?”

And again, no answer.

And God shouted, “Where the f*** is Metatron?” Page Metatron! Page him now!”

If you know Heaven’s hierarchy, you know that Metatron is chief among the Seraphim, and that the Seraphim are the highest order of God’s Angels. If you don’t know Heaven’s hierarchy, it doesn’t matter. Metatron is still chief among the Seraphim and the Seraphim are still the highest order of God’s Angels. In this, and many other things, what you know doesn’t matter, although who you know, may.

Ever since God created Herself, the Seraphim have stood before God—and before Her throne once She designed and built it—and shouted “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts, all the earth is filled with Her glory.” No one, including the Seraphim, know why they shout that particular thing. They always have, and perhaps always will.

God created Her first universe by Hand, which She found tedious. So she invented the Universe Creation Controller (UCC) along with evolution to automate the process. As chief among the Seraphim, Metatron is proud to be in charge of the UCC. When God says “Let there be Light!” Metatron is supposed to press the “Create The Universe” preset on the UCC Control Board. Then trumpets are supposed to blare and whatever Universe has been programmed into the UCC is supposed to begin its evolution. Recipe for any universe: UCC and evolution plus time.

If the preset had been pressed, which it had not been, there would have been Light, which there wasn’t. God would have seen the Light, which She didn’t, and would have approved, which She couldn’t. Then She would have divided the Light from the Darkness, which She hadn’t, and would have called the Light Day and the darkness Night, which She can’t. Yada yada yada, as the Seraphim say, and the rest of the universe would have evolved, which, of course, there is no way it could.

It was a good system, but not perfect, and to God, who found beauty in both imperfection and in paradox, this made it perfect. When God had said “Let There Be Light” Metatron had been at lunch. When his pager went off, Metatron grabbed the remains of his sandwich and hurried back.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; all the earth is filled with Her glory,” shouted Metatron through a mouthful of pastrami and cheese on rye as he came into the Presence. “We’re not supposed to start for...” Metatron tried to say defensively, but God interrupted.

“Where the f*** were you?” God didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need to, because She was omniscient. Still, She liked asking questions. She had ever since She’d invented them.

And God said, “And God said, ‘Let there be Light!!!’”

And God added, “That’s your f***ing cue!!!”

Metatron walked to the AUCC and adjusted it for the late start, wrote “Bootstrapping Universe” and the trans-universal Time in the Creation Log. He pressed meta so he’d create a metauniverse and then the Create preset. Trumpets blared, followed by an enormous explosion. Metatron jumped and let out an involuntary squeal. As many times as he’d caused it, as many times as he’d heard it, God’s patented Big Bang© still scared the shit out of him.

Metatron logged “Big Bang” and the Time. There were no photons yet, so there could be no Light, but that would change soon enough. Metatron and God sat quietly in the Darkness, waiting. In just 10-12 seconds the quark epoch began, then the hadron and lepton epochs, and a mere ten seconds after the Big Bang, the photon epoch. Now there could be Light, but there still wasn’t any: the universe was still far too hot for stars.

Metatron and God waited for about one hundred seven million of what humans—a semi-intelligent species that would eventually evolve on a small planet that they would eventually call Earth, located in one of the galaxies that they would eventually call the Milky Way would eventually—in one of the languages that they would develop and eventually call English—call years had passed, an enormous ball of compressed hydrogen reached a critical temperature, ignited a thermonuclear reaction, and the first Population III star began to shine. Metatron felt a chill, smiled and logged the event. It was just so cool! And completely automated! God was a f***ing Genius.

Finally there was a little Light, but not enough. So they waited and watched star after star after star blossom. A few went nova. Finally, just over two hundred fifty million of those ‘years’ later, on what would have been a Monday at what would have been called noon in what would eventually be called Eastern Standard Time in that same language on that same planet, Metatron decided there was enough Light. He checked the Time, wrote “Dividing” in the Log, and poked God. God had been snoozing.

She yawned, stretched, rolled up Her sleeves, and with a flourish She divided the Light from the Darkness. She saw that it was good. In fact, it was better than that.

“F**ing Awesome!” She said, smiling. “Really cool! Great metauniverse. That’s a wrap, everyone! Keep an eye on things, Metatron. Let me know if I’m needed. Let’s let it evolve!”

God was happy. Creating universes always gave Her a high. It was Her thing! She grabbed a beer from Her cooler and went off to do what She often did after creating a universe: She watched Her collection of “Gene Simmons Family Jewels” and “The Osbornes” DVDs.

They astounded Her. How could evolution produce the heart-stopping wonder of the sky, seen from the center of the Milky Way, God’s very favorite galaxy; how could evolution produce the tail of the peacock, the song of the nightingale, the minds of apes, crows, porpoises and of humans on Earth, God’s favorite planet; how could evolution, acting on the minds in the evolved brains of humans, Her favorite sapient species, produce that incredible assortment of cultures, each with its own art, music, literature, language, mythology, metaphors, beauty, cruelties, situation comedies and reality shows?

Of course God was omniscient, and could have known the answer, but God found mystery as beautiful as knowledge, and found as much joy in wondering as She did in knowing. How could My divine mechanism produce a**holes like Gene Simmons and Ozzy Osborne? She wondered in italic, just like a mortal. She thought that was fun.

Alone in Her quarters, God shook Her head. She took a swig of Her beer, and put on Episode 3, Season 1 of “The Osbornes,” Her favorite, then stopped.

I’m in the prologue to a metanovel! She realized, just as this prologue reached the sentence in which She realized it. Cool! She thought. Neat timing!

God turned back to Her beer and Her DVDs.

This could get pretty cool in another 13.45 billion years, She thought.

The prologue was about to end.

The author had a metauniverse, though one still needing lots of evolution to be good for anything but a prologue.

And 13.45 billion years later, just as God had ordained, the metanovel would continue.

For you, as you turn the page, it will seem as though no time at all has passed.

Blasphemy!

“Now that’s really blasphemy,” says a reader.

“No it’s not,” repeated God. “It’s My Word. It can’t be blasphemy.”

“We have a disclaimer,” repeated the publisher’s chief legal counsel. “Any resemblance between the character called God and any deity, living or dead, is purely coincidental.”

“You’re fictional,” says my inner critic. “Your statements will have no standing in a court of law.”

“I beg to differ,” said John Roberts, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. “The publisher’s counsel, Mr. Darrow, has presented your arguments. My colleagues and I find that they are allowable.”

“The issues are fairly straightforward,” said Clarence Darrow.

“This is madness,” said my inner critic. “You really need to stop, right now.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“He doesn’t need to,” said Sir Isaac Newton. “Metanovels in motion, tend to remain in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force.”

“You can’t keep it up, you know,” says my my inner critic, trying another approach.

“What do you mean,” I ask, even thought I knew exactly what my inner critic meant.

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” says my inner critic. “You like what you’ve got so far. But it’s only been 16 pages. You can’t keep it up. You’re only going to be disappointed. So will your readers, if any. Save us all the grief.”

Actually I didn’t like everything I had written so far. At least I didn’t like it then. But I did a lot of editing and rewriting, and I really like what I’ve written so far, now.

“I don’t care,” I say, at that time. “I’m not trying to make it good. And I’m not writing this for readers. I’m just trying to reach the word count. I’ve got to write 50.000 words. And I’m doing it.”

“Wrong!” Says my inner critic, triumphantly. “That’s what you said during the first draft. Then you were just trying to hit the word count. But this isn’t your first draft. This is your thirtieth. You keep editing. And editing. And editing in the vain hope that this will come to something worthwhile. It won’t. You’re never going to finish. You’re going to just edit and edit. And edit. And then you’re going to quit. Face it, you’re not a finisher.”

I thought for a while. “I do have trouble finishing.”

“Right,” says my inner critic. “So quit now and save us all the trouble.”

“No,” I said to my inner critic. “I like my metanovel, and I’m not giving up.”

“That makes me so happy to hear,” said the metanovel.

“You’re just delaying the inevitable,” said my inner critic. “You’re never going to finish.”

“I may not be a finisher,” I say, “but I’m also not a quitter. I’ll keep going.”

And I do.

Months later the metanovel wasn’t finished, but I hadn’t quit either.

And eventually it was finished, but not the way I had expected.