At the request of "The Book of Michael"

It’s coming. The book. It’s been coming for a while. And it’s about to arrive. Nanowrimo is coming! (There, book, are you happy?)

In 2011 I wrote a book called “Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dummies, a self-referential metanovel” hereinafter SRMW. I wrote it during National Novel Writing Month, hereinafter NaNoWriMo. Here’s how NaNoWriMo works: on November 1, participants start writing a 50,000-word novel and tracking their progress. They need to finish it by 11:59 PM on November 30, but they can get there sooner. If you write 50,000 words, you win. Win what? You win the right to say that you did it. I did it.

I didn’t know that’s what I was going to write when I started. I didn’t have a title or a plot or any characters. All I had was hope. I wrote whatever came into my head—initially about how I was writing whatever came into my head. Then I realized that I was writing the story of how I was writing the story of writing what I was writing. So it was a metanovel—a novel about a novel. And not just an novel about any novel, but a novel about itself. Hence a self-referential metanovel. And how to write one. Hence SRMW.

Woody Allen said: “80% of life is just showing up” I showed up to write and stuff showed up on the page. Characters showed up. My daughters showed up. My mom showed up. God showed up. The book showed up as a character. It demanded I finish it.

I complied. After NasNoWriMo I spent a next couple of months editing the book. I’m not sure if I made it better or not. I just kept making it different. Finally the book got tired of me fiddling with it and demanded to be published. Leonardo da Vinci said “A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.” I abandoned my book to Lulu.com where it now sits.

I couldn’t look at it for a while but eventually went back and read it. Parts, anyway. I thought that some of it was good, and some was embarrassing. (And the book thinks that some of me is good, and some is embarrassing, so we’re even)

I just went to check it out and found it’s full of errors.

I tried to do NaNoWriMo a few more times, but I never got very far. Then this year came. Another book appeared and asked me to I write it. It told me its name. It said it was “The Book of Michael.” Then it vanished.

Sometimes I would forget about writing and the book would show up to remind me. I started spending time thinking about things that might go in the book. Or maybe the book made me think about things that it wanted to be about.

Then yesterday the book showed up and said, “Start writing me. Today. Now.”

“It’s not NaNoWriMo yet,” I answered. “I can start at one minute past midnight, on November 1, if you want.”

“You can start any time,” the book said. “As long as you write 50,000 words during the month of November you can win.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I am,” the book lied.

“I’m not lying,” the book answered. “It’s true that I’m making shit up, but that’s not the same as lying. I’m a work of fiction, after all,” it said, “When you make shit up, you’re lying. When I do, it’s just me being me—a work of art.”

I thought for a moment. There was no reason that a book had to start with Chapter 1. As long as I wrote 50,000 words during NaNoWriMo I’d be OK. Who could complain about that?

“I could complain,” said a voice in my head.

“And you are?” I asked.

“Who I am is not important,” it said. “The point is that I could complain. And I’m not the only one.”

“That’s true,” said the book. “Anyone can complain about that. But I don’t think anyone is going to.”

“Not anyone can complain about that,” said the voice. “Babies can’t complain about that. They can complain about other things. The point is that he didn’t say ‘Who’s going to complain about that?’ He said ‘Who could complain about that?’ I want it on the record that almost anyone could complain about that. Complaining is a human right. Also fictional characters can complain, too.”

“Noted,” I noted. Then to the book. “Alright, I’ll start.”

“You already have,” said the voice.

“And announce me,” the book said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the book. “Start with a blog post. Then maybe something in Facebook?”

“Facebook?” I asked. “That’s out of my comfort zone,”

“Get used to it,” said the book.

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