Ásgrímur Hartmannsson

Bewildering Stories biography

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Ahh, who am I? Well, if you must know, you will have to meet me. For those who can’t:

My name is Ásgrímur Hartmannsson. But you can call me Ásgrímur. Or Ásgrímur Hartmannsson. Whatever. I am not spelling it out phonetically, but I can say it is almost completely unpronounceable to the common English-speaker.

I seem to have been born in the year 19—. I don’t know whether it was a good year, as I was too young at the time to remember it. But it was before they legalized beer.

Then I slowly grew up. Went to school, read stuff... I actually read large portions of a certain medical dictionary for fun. At least now I know what a “holoacardius amorphus” is.

I guess I look OK. People don’t run away screaming upon beholding my visage, at least. I am medium height, towering over Japanese and most Chinamen, but towered over by NBA players. Slightly underweight, but not much. Am trying to work at it, but overeating is bloody painful. My appearance varies greatly, mostly because sometimes I don’t shave for weeks, sometimes my hair grows too long, and sometimes I get a haircut and a shave, rendering me unrecognizable to people for days to come. The Internet holds no pictures of me, don’t bother to look.

I love getting drunk for free, or at least as little money as possible. Drinking, however, inhibits my ability to type, and thus, I rarely write drunk. My drinking habits, mentioned earlier, also mean I do not get drunk too often. But who cares. My muse has a name, and that name is Insomnia. She rides a horse called Boredom.

But one needs sleep, if one does not want to decent into delirium, or worse, an open manhole. And I have found that the best breakfast one can have is hamburger. Or steak. M-mm-mmm! It makes my day! Try it! The best way to begin a day.

I currently reside in a large, stately house on Heimaey, a small volcanic island just south of the Arctic circle.

I have been writing short and long tales for my own amusement for some years now. Mostly in my own language, centering on ridiculous situations. Like a hit man being called to get rid of a rat... stuff like that.

Then, when it dawned on my, that I might get an international audience, I thought I might write something in English. When I read the first stories I wrote, I can see that my grammar has improved somewhat. The plots have gone from being violence and chase-oriented into being chase and violence-oriented. A little bit like reading anatomy and new-car buyers guides simultaneously. I am trying to fit these things together to form one. I am also trying to fit in plot and meaning, but those things tend to steal from the carnage and destruction, making the resulting work strange. Imagine reading the new car buyers guide and anatomy simultaneously, the whole thing having plot too.

This nonsense will have to do, for now.

P.S.: If you happen to meet me, please feel free to buy me a drink. : )