The light shines bright through melancholy willow branches. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning and the crisp spring air delights our senses. The jasmine is in bloom, dandelions raise their shy heads from the dewy grass. Birds chirp to the sound of what happens.
We are here today with Jeremy Connor, one of the least influential writers of our century. His literary failures are constant, yet so unremarkable and petty, that we could not miss the rare opportunity to offer you a piece of his wisdom.
Mr. Connor, what an honor and deep pleasure to finally meet you. I know you are not only busy but also a very private person. Thank you for spending this beautiful moment with us.
First of all, when did you begin to think of yourself as a writer?
I was a young boy. I remember it clear as daylight. The first time I walked into a library with my parents. It was empty and the librarian was chewing gum while playing Solitaire! I thought, there’s a way to do nothing in life and get paid. I wanted to be a writer then and there! When I grew older, it became clear to me that the business of writing differed from a librarian’s job. That’s when I decided to put all my efforts into failing.
What was your daily routine as you renounced all literary ambition?
I was very disciplined. Every day I would wake up and not write. I would engage in every activity imaginable to completely forget about it: brush my teeth, wash a week’s worth of dirty dishes, check on my neighbors, volunteer for the Footnote Eradication Society. I would go for more or less the same routine at lunch plus a nap. In the evening I usually got together with my friends for drinks and avoided reading and writing at any cost. If nobody was available, I would walk around the city, then watch reality TV or porn. At some point, I got a day job in order to turn procrastinating into an indefinite official postponement of any imaginary duties.
What does it take to be an obscure and irrelevant writer?
That’s an interesting, if a bit foreseeable, question. What does it take? Well, if you look at it from my perspective, I think it takes a lot of coarse style emulation, microwave-ready wisdom, lack of imagination and at the end of the day – sheer laziness. Theoretically at least. I never got past the first line. Overall, just make sure your influences are as mediocre as your ambitions and you’re all set.
Speaking of which, who are your artistic influences?
I look up to the kind of bland writers who combine moral and aesthetic platitudes with an opaque style. But I’m not a big reader.
Which goals did you fail to achieve?
There was a time when I wanted to write the next Great American Novel, but then I soon realized I had to read all those books about American families, culture, all the Steinbecks and Pynchons, Roths and Updikes just to get a gist of what the American Novel was. Thanks, but no thanks.
A piece of advice for aspiring writers?
It’s failure that gives you the proper perspective on success.