Books To Read: Briefcase Encounters by Alexander Hammond

Preface

When was the last time you were chased by a wild animal? Have you ever tried to avoid sleeping with a famous porn star? What would you do when an earthquake hits and you’re on the thirty-second floor of your hotel? How do you react when your dinner tries to walk off your plate whilst you’re trying to eat it?

Welcome to my ‘day job’–the world of the business traveller. Note that I say business traveller, not simply traveller. When I’m not writing fantasy literature, you’ll find me with ever-present jet lag, a bulging briefcase and buttocks like a dartboard as a result of perpetual inoculations. To make ends meet I spend my life swanning around the globe at my clients’ expense, often, to their horror, at their very considerable expense.

It was Emerson who once said No man would find anything in travel that he did not bring with him on the journey. I can only assume this was meant philosophically. Deep emotional scars, romantic nightmares, monumental confusion and highly disturbing dining experiences are unusual things to consciously burden oneself with when packing for an extended trip. I endeavour to leave such things at home and generally pick them up en route.

I’m always filled with feelings of profound envy when standing, suited, at an airport, surrounded by excited holidaymakers, eagerly awaiting their flight for two weeks of rampant sex, good food and relentless sunshine. Would that I were there for the same reason. Relentless sunshine is something I generally only see from the window of my meeting room, good food can be a relative thing and as for rampant sex, well I suppose the ten-second adult movie previews in my hotel room occasionally serve their purpose.


Business travellers are compelled to get under the skin of a country immediately, mix in with local people and experience real situations. Admittedly, whilst this can be thoroughly wretched (especially for a xenophobic Brit), it’s also a fertile breeding ground for unique and unforgettable moments.

It was concerning such moments that my publisher made the blunt suggestion that I should stop moaning about them and keep a journal.

“Not a chance. I’m a fantasy novelist,” I told him
.
“I’m thinking around 50,000 words,” he murmured.

“Look, I’m really not a journal writer,” I insisted.

“It’s settled, then … we’ll publish in the summer,” he continued.

My blustered protestations concerning a lack of time, combined with an unhealthy surfeit of false modesty, did little to deflect encouragement.

He dryly observed that Marcus Aurelius, whilst Emperor of the Roman Empire, had found time every day to write a few lines. Surely I, with perhaps less-demanding constraints on my time, could do the same?

 **My review of this wonderfully hilarious title will probably post tomorrow. In the meantime, I implore you to order it and start reading. Its one of those "devoured in a night," type of things.
Links!

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To learn more about the author 

On Lit Snobbery and the End of the World

 Everyone that knows me in real life is aware that I run an unofficial book group down here in Alabama, which I cleverly dubbed The Madison County Book Club.

This month I forced everyone at gunpoint into reading Alexander Hammond’s collection of disturbingly exquisite short stories entitled: Tales From The Edge of Forever.

Now that the month and book are swiftly coming to an end, I’d like to tell a humorous story about an argument I got into with a good buddy, who happens to think he knows everything, because he has an M.A. in Literature. For the purposes of this post I will call him Douche Bagg-The Incredibly Obnoxious and Redundant Lit Snob. I obviously don’t want to be rude and use the man’s real name.

The first story in Hammond’s book is entitled The End of The World, and I’d like to share a brief passage from this story before getting on with this ridiculous tale...

The night was warm though not unbearably so. It was for nights like these that the lone figure walking along the beach had traveled so far. A balmy ambiance pervaded and with the sun long gone, the walker was content to note that the sand still held some of the Caribbean sun’s fierce heat.

Yes I know, totally delicious writing and a natural starting point for our discussion of this book. I was chosen, as the person who had read the book the most times, to lead the discussion. As I started this venture I could feel Douche Bagg’s eyes on me, waiting to unleash a scathing rebuttal to whatever was about to come out of my mouth. Despite this fact, I squared my shoulders and started in on what I liked about Hammond’s writing style. Whilst I was in the middle of this, I heard an obnoxious, “Ahem,” which caused me to turn to Douche Bagg and look him in those steely, hunter green eyes.

         “That’s all well and good, but what do you think this story is about?”

         For some reason I was floored by this particular question.

         “Did you hear me, Natasha? What is The End of the World is about?”

        

         “Uh, the story is about sex…” I blurted out stupidly. To my relief, the thirteen other people in the group nodded their heads approvingly…except for of course, Old Douche Bagg.

         “Sex?” he asked dubiously. “Are you referring to this last passage?” he snarled, snatching my signed copy of the book out of my lap and drawing an incredibly pretentious fountain pen out of his front pocket. To my chagrin, he then proceeded to circle a passage before reading it out loud to the group.

As they embraced Sam felt as never before. The deliciousness of the girl’s femininity descended like a blissful mist as her long nailed fingers began their sensual exploration. Within moments the girl skillfully liberated Sam’s skirt from her tanned legs and started on the buttons of her flimsy blouse.

         “That passage makes you believe this is about sex?” he asked now, startling me out of the trance Hammond’s writing usually sends me into.

         “Clearly,” was my witty retort.

        

         “Bit of a juvenile assessment, don’t you think?”

         “Probably, why don’t you tell me what its about Dr. Bagg?” I asked hotly, rolling my eyes sympathetically at the rest of my book group.

Which he gladly did…

For the next twenty-five minutes I listened to a pretentious speech about beginnings and endings, and blah blah blah. Douche Bagg was in the middle of cleverly telling us about how Hammond was simply trying to say that for “anything to begin…something has to end.”

         At some point during this very long monologue, I managed to snatch the book back from him in annoyance. As I did so he laughed at me and asked in a queer voice, “Did I offend you?”

         “Not at all. We both said the same thing.”

         “Clearly, you weren’t listening. A story being about sex and using sex as a metaphor…are no where near the same thing.”

         At this point I threw the book at him in annoyance and grumbled, “And clearly you don’t get laid much if you think the world doesn’t begin and end with sex…”

         Douche Bagg stole my book after that last comment…God, I really hope it gets him laid.

This is where the asshole scribbled all over my poor book.

You can purchase Tales From The Edge of Forever here



The author's blog can be found here