In high school, my friends and I started a book. A part of the story would be written by someone and then left hanging at a crucial moment and passed to someone else to continue. The end result was a mixture of all of our individual narcissisms, ideologies, insecurities, obsessions with the sex we weren't actually having, passive aggressions, and opinions of each other, and very interestingly interspersed with the influence of all the literature we were reading in AP English. This book begins with:
"Once upon a time in the Land of Flowing Waters, lived a small community of students, dwelling together in a cottage. Life was grand to these people... Centuries later, we come to today. The community consisted of all punk teenagers."
And it ends with almost Hawthornian ambiguity:
"The club was a success until the monster Grendal..."
In between those pages were witch burnings, heists, multiple partner-swapping, betrayal, lies, poisonings, giant killer chickens and murder. Every once in a while, there were brief moments of happiness. This book is a classic waiting to be published.
I once tried to type it up (which I may try again when I get it back from Scotland... or did I bring it with me? Must check my stack of papers and folders I brought with me), but it made no sense if you couldn't see where one writer finished and another picked up. One day, I'll type it up, using some kind of formula to indicate who wrote what. I still recognize half my friends' handwriting!
(By the way, this is the first time I've ever done a Throwback Thursday. I think it's kind of lame. But it might be kind of fun too. Maybe I should also bring back the Friday Fifive.)
(It also gives me an easy excuse to blog on Thursdays.)