And how did the results turn out?

Very mixed, as might be expected.

First off, a wee word about the rules for this expedition into word-simultaneity. The rules for it are very oblique and somewhat pretentious (ie "skill in synthesis [as a form of minimalist exasperation];" "every temporal diversion is permitted on condition that the fulcrum of narrative be the selected time span and that every semantic variation derive from them" - EH?) and off-putting, but enough people seem to have understood them to have submitted their work for inclusion in the digest.

Secondly, a word on 'Storie' itself. It's a slick, obviously well-established, good-looking, well-produced A5 publication which comes with every story in English and Italian, which must have come as a kick to the writers (I got a personal kick out of knowing that 'a blowjob' in Italian is 'un pompino') to see in print. It's 156 pages long, with obscure news stories from round the world, as well as short stories by various European (or otherwise) writers, as well as reviews of trendy CDs and books and DVDs and whatnot. It's clearly aimed at the hip, arty, intellectual type.which screws me on all three counts, but it's definitely a stylish piece of wordwork.

The writers included in this experimental-experiential work come from all over the (inaccurately geographically represented) Scottish map, from Aberdeen to Inverness to Tullibody to Edinburgh to Glasgow), so there's certainly a wide enough spread across the country being represented. Edinburgh (where Laura is from) and Inverness submit the most numerous entries, the latter because seven of the 34 writers were on the same bus trip from Arvon writing centre, including Laura herself.

Thus it's interesting to see seven different perspectives on essentially the same material, ie the view from a bus in the Highlands, and it's funny to see how the different people interpret the same scene, encompassing everything from the breathtaking scenery to introspective musings on lives and loves past and present - or even the people present on the bus journey with them as distractions or writing material. Oddly serendipitous that the time for the experiment should have happened at that exact moment, then. As for the rest of the writers, well, their contributions cover everything from how sick they are of their jobs to what to eat for dinner (a constant thread; not unexpected given the time of day) to who's in the pub along with the scribbler. The usual life smorgasbord then.

Some of the writing appears more stylised and less spontaneous than others (some write far more than others, too, but this seems in part down to whether they're using a keyboard or sitting with a pen and pad). Have to admit, I'm somewhat sceptical about whether some of the writings weren't worked over or touched up a wee bit later on, because they seem a bit too linear and poetic and time-capsule-complete. I suppose we'll never know, but wanting to go over what you did and correct it and tidy it up a bit must have been a big temptation.

It's funny. With some of the writers you can sense them overwhelmed by the occasion, totally stunned and stalled in their skins and would-be musings by the performance-anxiety-raising pressure on them to write something breathless and deathless, fingers and brains and word-worldviews locking up as the clock inexorably tick-tock talks and walks on, but they soldier on regardless, puttering through their ten minutes of temporary temporal infamy and putting down something they hope won't sound too stupid or grammatically incorrect.

Or at least most of them do. In amidst a welter of unknowns and semi-knowns-from-Laura's site, a few familiar names can be glimpsed here and there. Some of these writers play against type, some stay on familiar territory. Thus we have Kevin Williamson musing about indie Scottish musical culture (funny to see my old Falkirk pals, the now-defunct Arab Strap, mentioned) and nationalism; and Gordon Legge mentioning his ever-popular popular music-writing topic.

Iain Bahlaj, the 'Dennis Cooper of Fife,' plays goes completely the opposite direction from his usual angry nihilistic ranting, apologizing for his self-proclaimed 'boring' life because he writes that he's watching 'Friends' (a fact he should rightly be ashamed of!) as he recovers from a privately-done operation and wondering if he can use expletives, meekly and hilariously writing 'p$$h' for (I would assume) 'push' (chuckle).

But the real surprise to me here was, I must admit, Linda Watson-Brown's piece. It was nice - and completely gobsmacking - to see her writing about being happy raising three children, instead of the somewhat unbalanced embittered feminist pieces she used to write for the Scottish tabloids a few years back that danced on my nerves during a bad period of my own life caused by a woman. Good luck to her.

My least favourite piece is by Peter McCabe of Glasgow, who writes of how hilarious he finds it that two braindead football supporters rampaged through the supermarket he works in, one of them throwing a beer bottle at his housewife supervisor. How funny would you find it if that was your mother? Not much, I'll bet.

While we're on the 'not so interesting' side of things, Charlie Skinner's piece (from Edinburgh, naturally) comes across like warmed-over old Irvine Welsh, though still with a ring of truth about it, it must be said. On the opposite end of the enjoyment scale, my favourite piece was by Calum Cumming, an Aberdonian whose bar-set musings came in an entirely familiar (from experience), oddly comforting voice; 'Modernity engulfed in utter hard and tough parochialism,' as he puts it. He also wins special bonus marks because his last three urine-stream-theme words, 'un orinare grande,' are the only Italian ones between the digest's pages from the Scots therein; clever and funny.

'Storie's' motto is 'All Write.' Overall, I'd have to say that this is a very interesting, if to varying degrees successful, short sketch democratic writing experiment, and is definitely worth a look. Definitive quote from the pieces herein comes from Margaret Elphinstone in Glasgow. She's writing of the flowers in her window boxes, when the rain comes on and she has to rush outside and get her washing in off the line before it gets soaked. She sits back down again and realises that her ten minutes are almost up, a large chunk of the time having been eaten by this sudden unexpected rainy intrusion into her day, and she writes:

'And this is wasn't what I planned at all. I was going to sit at my desk and think of something profound, but the washing got in the way.'

Isn't that just what always happens?