Interview with Jeremy Fernando

HH: Let's begin with a little bit about yourself and your upcoming book!

JF: It actually came to me in the aftermath of a wake, more specifically the wake of my grand-aunt: when precisely half the people who were there came down with COVID … all of whom, and only those who were, related to her. It was almost as if she wanted to bring us along for the ride: which I found thoroughly amusing (granted, I was one of the few who did, but that in-itself isn’t that rare a happenstance).

So one might say this book came to me. 

Along with all of the things that I associated with her: particularly good food. Naturally a lot of it ends up being mixed, tossed, spiced-up, to the point when they be larger than life; which is rather apt, considering she were a massive fan of pro-wrassling … “oooo yeah” (Randy Savage).

HH: What is your current writing process? Is there one?

JF: I can only write by attempting to write. In many ways, I think writing comes to one — from somewhere else, everywhere else, anywhere else; often-times in spite of one self. Hence, even as all writing can only happen through the self, one’s self is — and can only be — the medium through which it occurs. Where, the only thing one can do is attempt to respond to, attend to, the possibility of writing itself.

By being in front of a keyboard, by having a notebook on me.

By reading.

After all, all craft is a form of mimesis; and often-times writing begins with reading something, anything. After-which I might be able to form a certain relationship between what is read and what is being written. But, it is not as if every mimesis is writing. And, even as there is no verifiable difference between a grammatically-correct sentence and a piece of writing, one can never know the difference until it is read. And even then …

However, being open to possibilities means that I have concede that I am never in control of my thoughts, my writing. Sometimes whatever is written is strange, unfamiliar, other, to me — a fragment of me.

And, I can never quite control how it will be read: I can only write, read, and leave it to be read. In many ways, “writing is an inhuman and unintelligible activity — one must always do it with a certain disdain, without illusions, and leave it to others to believe in one’s own work” (Jean Baudrillard).

In the same spirit as Kathy Acker (if that is not too vainglorious an association to make … so maybe, in the hope that it is in the same spirit as Kathy Acker), “I write using other texts”.

And if you are wondering why so many quotations, citations, echoes of the writings of others appear in my writing, show-up in all my writings, the only thing I can say that all of my thoughts, notions, scribbles, inscriptions, come from elsewhere, and owe a deep thanks to my teachers, both whom I’ve met, some that I’ve read, others that I haven’t even realised had already written themselves into me. For, I’d like to think that thinking (denken) should always also entail thanking (danken). 

And here, I shall defer to yet another of my far more elegant friends, the inimitable Singaporean writer, Adibah Mustafa, who describes my work — in her typically deeply-generous manner (one that I’m not sure I deserve, but shamelessly and gratefully will accept) as thus: “at the heart of Fernando’s approach is the exaltation of citation and annotation: each one constitutes in itself a longing to remember and to relate, manifesting as an act of translation, for it gathers something from ‘there’ and carries it over ‘here,’ where it quickens, as much as it’s quickened by, a new fit and form”.

Friends have an effect on me, can sometimes open a question in me, might well affect me, unveil a new register, perhaps inseminate a thought in me, might even infect me — my writing is syphilitic. (a boy can only dream)

Socrates had a daemon that whispered into his ear;
the Romans had a genius that struck them;

I have a bottle of gin
(ideally with a twist of lime).

HH: What's the one thing you love about publishers and what's the one thing you hate about them?

JF: That’s probably too general a question — it depends on what kind of publisher (the large, commercially-driven, ones tend to have a wider reach, so you’ll potentially get more readers, but also tend to be rather unadventurous and somewhat dull; small presses, depending on their proclivities, are potentially more interesting, but not necessarily so too). 

I suppose it really depends on the people involved — unless there shareholders, then you might as well not bother; if there is a HR department, “run for the hills, run for your life” (Iron Maiden) — and, even more so, the particular person you’re encountering (which, like a lot of coming-togethers, happens purely by chance); whether you get along, have similar approaches to making works, have compatible tastes, and such things. 

HH: Of all the things you've written so far, which is your favourite and why?

JF: Mmm that’s a really difficult one, and not because I’m precious about my works: far from it. In many ways, I’m very much with Pontius Pilate on this one: quod scripsi scripsi. But that I really think I’ve only ever written one thing, that I’m constantly rewriting it, endlessly, will always be doing so; and where some incarnations are better than others, which is something that can only be determined (if that is even the word) at the point of reading, redetermined each time it is read, so could well be down to the weather, and whether there was (of course there is, so really how much) gin involved.  

HH: If you could collaborate on a project with anyone, who would it be?

JF: Mmm that’s a really good question, and, to be honest, I don’t really know: not because I’m being coy or anything (tee hee, *bats eyelids*), but that even as all of my work is collaborative — are responses to other works, the works of others, to the world in which we are living — I rarely work directly with other people on a work. 

But if I were to hazard a guess, it would be with someone who has a wicked sense of humour, likes a drink, enjoys a scrumptious meal, and above all, doesn’t take themselves too seriously. A conspiratorial collaborator!

HH: What do you fear?

JF: Overstaying my welcome. And writing when I no longer have anything to write. 

For, “disappearing should be an art form, a seductive way of leaving the world. I believe that part of disappearing is to disappear before you die, to disappear before you have run dry, while you still have something to say …” (Jean Baudrillard)

HH: Yes, terrifying indeed! Food has quite the presence in your upcoming release. Tell us about your earliest culinary childhood memory?

JF: Playing in the backyard of my grandmother’s place: she had an outdoor kitchen. And when she and my mom were making meals, they would turn a stool upside-down, place a wok on it, and I’d fill it with ingredients (usually grass, twigs, and some such things) and cook alongside them. 

I’m pretty sure this is why I’ve always associated cooking with play. 

HH: That's a fun take on things! What do you drink when you write?

JF: Gin.

HH: Nice! Following up on that, if you were a cocktail, what would you be and why?

JF: A martini, made in the manner prescribed by Noel Coward: “fill a glass with really cold gin, then wave it in the general direction of Italy.”

HH: If it were up to you, how would you prefer to die?

JF: In the midst of mis-quoting Spike Milligan: “told you I wasn’t feeling well”.

HH: Finally, what's next on the cards for Jeremy Fernando?

JF: As my beloved grandmother used to sing to me, que sera sera.