Writing is such a peculiar thing to find oneself doing in the first place – this unlikely urge to create alternative universes. The novelist feels obliged to do the work better left to the forces of evolution, helping the Blind Watchmaker on His way, offering yet more possibilities as He splits and divides, splits and divides His nuclei – this one’s temperament, that one’s physique – until perfection of the human psyche is achieved and the asteroid strikes or the earth falls into the sun. It’s as if the Great Designer needed help from a handful of humans to think up yet further variations on His creation, or Her, mind you, or Zir, or whatever pronoun you prefer in these touchy days. It seems such a privilege to be declared a novelist, one had better teach: pass on what one has found out in practice about the rules of the craft, the guild, the discipline, the calling, however one sees it. So let us examine the accepted rules of writing novels, and a few of the rule over-rides for when the former break down. Which they often do (this is often called genius).