Please ignore me
This is not advice and I'm not an influencer
The other night I dreamed that influencers worldwide were being rounded up and sent to re-education camps.
It was one of those vivid dreams that feel like a film; or rather, in this case, a series of realistic newsreels. Across the world, influencers were being caught whilst producing their exasperating cunting content in the streets; they were cuffed and dragged shrieking cowardly into unmarked white vans in front of the TV cameras, their ring lights, tripods, and half-drunk flat whites left behind in the rush to deliver them to justice. These events repeated all over the world, with folk of all ages and from all demographics being arrested in a similar fashion, famous landmarks drifting in the background. I don’t know who was behind this operation, if it was a long-overdue international sting like when they go after nonces — this isn’t a question I asked myself at the time. On the other hand, at one point I did find myself wondering why they weren’t shot instead of re-educated. Then the thought crossed my dreaming mind, “Wait a minute… What if I’m an influencer too?” And that’s when I woke up covered in sweat. It took me the best part of three hours to fall asleep again.
“Influencer” isn’t a label I’d identify with. When I set out to write, when I post — for example — a little essay about something I’m reading and that I liked or hated a lot, I’m not trying to force your hand at all; if anything, I’m only using you as an excuse to talk about myself, as one (a writer) does. I’m not very active on social media and I don’t have a huge following that nods along with my words, as if I were a cult leader. I don’t do selfies or pictures of my breakfast or cats, not any more. I don’t do paid promotions or plug anything, not even my own books, much to my publishers’ dismay. But then, how many times in my life have I actually influenced someone? There must be more than I’d like to admit. For example, I once persuaded a friend to read The Rings of Saturn, by W. G. Sebald. Another time I told a colleague who was travelling to Rosario to avoid using his mobile phone in public in certain areas of the city. Not too long ago I got a gym buddy to cut down carbs in order to lose weight. I have recommended so many things in my life: pens, brands of yerba maté, films, pubs, types of flip flops, the proper way to fold a fitted sheet, and on at least two occasions the optimal route from Dalston to King’s Cross. None of these acts of influencing felt that consequential at the time, but looking back at them, and taken all together, they paint an unflattering picture of someone who has spent years interfering with people’s lives.
Since waking up from that dream slash nightmare, I've been trying to be more mindful. If someone asks whether a certain book is worth bothering with, I just shrug. If they ask where to eat in Central London I say that I haven’t been downtown in years, that they’ll be better off checking Time Out. When a student asked earlier this week whether the language in one of his essays was correct, I said that I had no idea, that improving his writing wasn’t my job, even though I get paid precisely to do this. I have avoided any takes on the new Chris Nolan film, just as I’ve refused to name my favourite translation of The Odyssey, and believe me, I have one. I haven’t said much about the Soccer [sic] World Cup either, even if Argentina made it to the final and played beautifully and to much acclaim. I no longer disclose where I get my hair cut (now I cut it myself, at home, and I have nothing else to add to this). I stopped expressing preferences regarding types of beer (I quit drinking a while back and I have no further comments about this life choice either). All of this silence feels selfish and dishonest, but no more selfish and dishonest than pretending that my opinions deserve an audience.
For my own peace of mind, let me make something extremely clear: you shouldn’t see me as a role model of any kind; nothing I’ve ever written or will write should be taken as advice; if I’m influencing you in any way, no matter how small, you need to rethink your life and figure out how to be less stupid. I might sound harsh, but this is a message full of love: be less stupid, let no one influence you.
And if you happen to read and enjoy this newsletter, I’d appreciate if you kept it to yourself. There’s no need to share my posts, tell your friends about what I say here, or even recommend my books. Word of mouth is precisely how these things get out of hand. Then, the next thing you know, there’s a white van parked outside your place and you’re being asked questions no decent person should ever have to answer.
This week I’m reading Martín Rejtman’s latest book, Cuarto sucio, ubicación peligrosa (Dirty Room, Dangerous Location), a very humorous travelogue; hopefully someone will translate it into English soon.
My soundtrack this week is Shadow Farming, a beautiful album by the unclassifiable Deux Filles.
I’ve also become certain that black biros are better than refillable fountain pens when it comes to writing fiction, and that Lidl breadsticks are better than the Co-Op ones.