You may remember a posting regarding our collaborative novel. The concept was that sitting on the bar we would have a book that all the bright minds who came to the bar could contribute toward. At the end, we would have this awesome novel that represented the narrative of the group.

I am sad to report that the experiment was a failure. By the third paragraph, the protagonist was holding his dick whereby the plot immediately descended into menstruation, ice on nipples and an 11-year-old opium dealer with “post millennial tension.” Soon afterward the obligatory cock-and-balls was scrawled across the page and then the thing began to take on the appearance of a bus seat/ public toilet wall.

Group novels are a bad idea. “Too many chefs spoil the broth” and all that sort of stuff. Instead, I will concentrate my attentions on my own novel “11 Handy Tips for Riding a Small Motorscooter in the City” due out in January 2011.