Joe over at The Bristol Prize has kindly drawn my attention to an interesting new book/project/experiment: Mark Watson, comedian and novelist, has a new book out today, called Hotel Alpha. My confession, of course, is that I haven't read it yet (though the publishers are very kindly sending me a copy right now - thanks, guys!), but I do love the idea: it's about a hotel and all the goings-on inside it, in the mode of Vicky Baum's Grand Hotel, or Perec's Life A User's Manual, or, getting all cross-genre, maybe Chris Ware's Building Stories (which you've got to read if you haven't already. I mean it.). Anyway, what caught my interest, and why Joe flagged it up for me, is the extradiegetic bits, or, in non-academic speak, the added extras that exist outside the bound book itself. Watson's written a hundred additional stories to compliment/reinforce/expand the novel in an encyclopaedic way, making it all polyphonic and less teleological and closed-off - which speaks to my PhD research into the short-story cycle. Watson's book isn't a cycle by my definition, but he's interested in what he calls the encyclopaedic novel and this project explores the digital/non-digital world of storytelling in a way that expands the reading experience (though without, say, the more graphically-inclined elements of Geoff Ryman's similar publication, 253). Anyway, it's pretty cool, so to help Mark launch the book, I'm including here his own explanatory afterword:
Hotel Alpha is designed to be read in two stages. There is the novel which you have just finished and, I hope, enjoyed – unless you’re one of those people who always flick to the back first. Then there are one hundred extra stories, which appear on a website: www.hotelalphastories.com. You will find eight of them here, once you turn the page. The extra stories span the same time period as the novel. They shine an alternative light on the plot, show the hidden links between some of its main events, solve mysteries, and give voice to some of the thousands of minor characters and dramas which make up the life of the Hotel Alpha while the main story is playing out. They can be read in any order and in any quantity. Or, of course, you can ignore them altogether – it’s entirely up to you.
Everyone knows that human stories are always bigger and more complex than they appear – the relationships and con- nections between us all are infinite, and a book can only do so much. The Internet, though, removes the physical limitations of the novel, opening up possibilities that have never before existed for readers and writers. We can now choose how much of a story we want to tell, and how much of it we want to know: in theory we can keep going forever. The one hundred extra stories of Hotel Alpha don’t quite go that far, and you as a reader prob- ably have other plans for the rest of your life. But it’s a start . . .
Mark Watson, May 2014
And here's one of those self-same one hundred stories in order to whet your appetite....
Story 31: Alpha Bar, 1971
They pose, eight of the lads, four at the front and four at the back. The famous trophy, full of champagne, on a table in front of them. And crouched down at the front, as if he’d won the thing himself, is Howard York. Bloke whose gaff this is. His wife is pointing the Polaroid at them.
Since the moment the final whistle went, it’s gone by in a haze. People ruffling his hair, shouting, draping their scarves round his neck. Up the steps to the Royal Box to collect the cup. Lifting it for the whole of Wembley to see. The roar of the fans. The splash of empty seats across half of the stadium, vacated by the other team’s supporters who pissed off home as soon as the game ended. Flags waving, people grabbing him. Finally back in the changing room. A sense of the euphoria already beginning to cool, exhaustion muscling in. The big bath already full of filthy foam. Into the big bath as the kit man handed round cans of beer. Beers in the bath! You know you’ve won the FA Cup when that happens. Even the boss was happy. Even that miserable bastard, happy.
Into the bath. Shorts off, thrown aside. Quickly under the waterline, feeling the slop of it against his skin. Into the bath. He had to be so careful. He always has to be so careful. Avoiding everyone’s eyes. The paint peeling on the wall; always expected Wembley to be a bit smarter. It’s in surprisingly poor nick. All these thoughts were useful. They took his mind away from Frank, from his long, strong body. From the male flesh all around. Just think of anything else, he told himself. If you ever want to have a career again. If you don’t want someone to break your fucking legs. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t let yourself think about it.
To get out of the water with an erection, that would be the end of everything. The same day he won the FA Cup. He would be finished.
‘And one more!’ says the woman, her hair cascading down over her face; she laughs and flicks it out of her eyes and swats it out of the way of the viewfinder. ‘One more, for Howard. He’s always been such a big fan of … of, I’m sorry, what team are you again?’
Everyone laughs, including Frank – who normally hates these sort of arseholes, hangers-on, people who attach themselves to a team on the good days. Even Frank. Oh, Frank’s hand on his back. The flash momentarily blinds them, and spots of white light dance in front of his eyes.
There must come a time, he thinks, when this is normal. When people see it as normal. Two men. There are places where it already happens. There must be so many people out there. If he was standing here in this place, with these blokes, thirty years from now, would it matter if he wanted to touch one of them? There’s no way of knowing. And anyway, he’s here now. In thirty years only his photo will still be here, the photo just taken in which he has forced a convincing smile onto his face; a picture destined to hang in a frame behind the reception desk, preserving for future generations a version of himself that looks perfectly, eternally happy.
So, if you liked that, head over to http://www.hotelalphastories.com to check out the other ninety-nine!