Boring Writing Stye

I grin internally, guiltily when I reflect on compliments of how I write. "You really ought to write a book," I've heard more than once. The conclusion from introspection is that nothing that I type is an original witticism or a clever idea. I'm not entirely a fake, rather a collection of everything that I have ever read. Put another way, my ideas are a permutation of the works of writers great and small. If I'm deficient in an area, it is because I haven't read from that genre. If I'm creative, it is because I'm drawing on some genius who ruminated for hours for a way to express an idea without ambiguity. Writers whom I eschew are those who thrive on confusion as if the ability to create talking points is a virtue. There is a class of readers which thrives on coming over time to a realisation of what an author truly meant. They're like the afficianodos on whom it jolts that there were two people in the cubist painting, or like connosieurs who detect a subtle flavour of a petal in a cabernet. I'd rather not go to my grave having missed out on these secrets so pander in my essays to my ilk. If I knew it, I would give away the algorithm to unwinding a distorted Rubick's cube. Did not Einstein do the same after realising the trade-off between mass and energy? I try to tell stories from experience in the least complicated way. There are only that many options for describing how a boring atheist-turned-zealot-come-full-circle, educated in engineering and economics, flew planes, sold books, dove with sharks on shipwrecks and operated heavy mining machinery.