“We, the Frankenstein” explores the (im)possibilities of collaborative writing.

Collaboration.  A no-brainer for musicians, a hot topic for visual artists, but for writers, an act that is considered more whimsy than Serious Work.  Take the Exquisite Corpse—the regularly-described “avant-garde parlour game” that is most often employed as a standard icebreaker in writing classes, educational tool for developing teamwork, a nerdy drinking game, and on occasion, a ruse to publish a whimsical book full of famous contributors that makes for great holiday gifting—or fan fiction, which no matter the breadth and depth of the writing, is still considered that: fan fiction.

It’s somewhat ironic that in the modern Western literary world, generally speaking, collaborative writing is viewed as novelty or even with a certain amount of derision.  After all, the elemental role of editors—whether professionals, friends, or family—in producing a work is rarely questioned.  And some of the most influential and important literature in history is the product of collaboration; the Bible comes to mind, as does any collection of myths, folklore, or fairytales I can think of.

So why the skepticism towards collaborative writing?  Is it because modern day writers are just selfish jerks?  Perhaps it has to do in part with the romantic notion of the writer as lone wolf, holed-up off the grid, door closed to the outside world, scribbling into isolated dirty madness.  As one who deeply values the quiet individual time to think and process at my own pace that writing provides, I am the first to admit that aspects of this caricature are not wholly mythic (though I would argue, like Katie Manderfield, that writing is more sane-making than not), but I don’t believe the insular tendencies of the writer personality or even creative differences explains all of it.

Anyone who has worked with anyone else can attest to the basic logistical difficulties of true collaboration.  Whether deciding on a place to meet for dinner or trying to resolve the conflict in the Middle East, collaboration requires an incredible amount of shared time, coordination, and communication.  Then there’s the fact that unlike other art forms, writing is traditionally equated to one linear thread of words and punctuation (present something beyond this definition, and for better or worse, like it or not, you’re politely moved into the nebulous world of experimental writing or text art, but I digress).  On first glance, the singular line-quality of writing may not seem like such an added challenge to collaboration.  But imagine twelve blind-folded, one-armed cooks with different palates and cooking styles who’ve signed up to making the ultimate carrot soup; now imagine eleven of them waiting in a line for the twelfth to finish chopping one carrot at a time before the next one can move onto the next step (yes, kind of like the cooking relay on Top Chef, but with one arm! one burner! self-imposed time limits! no $125,000 at stake!).  The set-up is not only fraught with the usual minefields that come when working with others, but it also presents additional opportunities for bottlenecking, losing momentum and interest, and boiling over with frustration and impatience.

That is unless, I am optimistically told, you live in the telepresent 21^st century where the writer, though still sitting behind a triple-locked door, works furiously at a keyboard by the glow of a computer screen open to the vast insta-community of the wired world, where the act of writing with others abounds formally and informally on Twitter, Facebook, fan sites, via email, apps, and wikis, and now through emerging platforms– including MixedInk, MakeLiterature, One Million Monkeys, Protagonize, and Thumbscribes–developed for the expressed purpose of generating collaborative work.  Unless you live under a luddite rock (which, if you are reading this, presumably you don’t), you already know of the lucrative phenomenon of Twitter novels in Japan which has received wide coverage since the trend boomed into best-sellerdom a few years ago, and Slate’s “The People’s Inaugural,” which was developed using MixedInk and created by 456 Slate members, and Neil Gaiman’s book project of 1000 tweets for BBC Audio Books America serve as only two examples of more mainstream forays into group writing.

However, again, despite the Japanese success stories, techno-buzz, and countless projects in process at this very moment, the fact still remains that collaborative writing has yet to gain traction as something more than trend or experiment in the Western literary scene.  Which goes back to the original question: Why the skepticism towards collaborative writing?  Or if not skepticism, the reservation to take it seriously?  What constitutes collaborative writing?  What is its appeal and/or lack of appeal?  What does it satisfy or leave us wanting?  As writers?  As readers?  Is it really so different from “non-collaborative” writing?  If so, how?  If not, why the hullabaloo in making the distinction?  And in the end, so what?

I am curious, if not to answer then at least to explore these questions on collaborative writing by picking the brains of those who do it, those who read it, and those who facilitate it, and–with the help of Thumbscribes, who’s courageously agreed to partner with Black Clock and our idiosyncratic ways in this rabbit hole of a series–by trying it out myself, or rather, ourself.

by Kyoung Kim
Deputy Managing Editor of Black Clock