This Day, I Choose a Boring Path

Some writers are like Don Williams in his graying years; they put you to sleep with their piece; not for the melody in their art though, but for the boredom that runs through their lines.
I read works of some of those writers, this week. Ever heard of Stuart Hall, Lawrence Grossberg, Nicholas Garnham, Nancy Fraser and others in the Cultural Studies and Political Economic Legion? Never mind, you won’t ever come across them if you don’t stick around your nose where Lynette teaches. Yes, Professor Lynette is my teacher in Rhodes. She teaches Media and Society in MA class once-a-week, sometimes, twice. A darn good lecturer she is. Behind, we call her the Witch of Rhodes. She knows too much for one person. But I like her. Her erudition constantly reminds me of my hollow head.
Anyway, I read dry articles written by these fellows. Lynette prescribed them for the semester. And guess what? I read into the night without a wink for days. I dared not stop. I got Friday deadline to produce my own seminal article after reading those boring stuff. And by 11:05 pm yesterday, I submitted. Barely one hour before deadline. From what I garnered, I was the last to submit. Today, reading what I submitted again, I nearly believed I penned no such humdrum. Flat piece! As boring as Nigerian constitution. This is not the kind of writing I want to spend the rest of my life doing. No! I want to be able to write stuff that would keep multitude awake many nights; writings that would make me more popular than Agatha Christie, and richer than Bill Gate.
But that’s a cheap dream. Hell, no. No cheap dream for me. I would rather go for a higher calling. Instead, I choose to write for the few. Those ones who will find my writing boring and still stay up the whole night reading it. People who will have no other option than to read me, because their claim to power depend s on it. He who shapes the mind of the powerful wields more power, you know. And the truly powerful are few in this planet.
Hello, you probably are dozing already. See, I am no longer your kind of writer. I am a bore. Go grab yourself a soft sell instead – thriller or tabloid.
And please accept my apology, I have chosen the boring path – without your consent.