Some years back, when I was still part of the legions of the respectably employed, I suggested to my fellow serfs that there was a better way to idle away the tedious hours between work and waiting for more work than playing Wolfenstein.
Suppose we took turns at writing a collaborative novel? I was willing to provide the first three pages, and then turn it over to anyone who wanted a go. Unfortunately for the future of Indian writing in English, the office beefed up its productivity schedules and we all ended up being far too respectably employed to waste time on anything this frivolous.
In hindsight, I heave a sigh of regret. Just this week, the newspapers abroad were cheerfully relating the story of a collaborative murder mystery penned by 15 Irish writers. The authors of Yeats is Dead included Frank McCourt, of Angela