I’m a writer.  A writer who hasn’t yet published her novel.  And I had a dream.  Not I have a dream–which of course I do, to publish a novel.  But I had a dream.  In my dream, a literary agent told me my writing wasn’t good because it was specious.

When I woke up this morning, at first I didn’t remember the dream.  I went into my study just like I do every morning.  I began to read “The Painters,” a poem by Jane Kenyon–recently I’ve been starting my morning of writing by reading a poem–and she used the word torpid.  The flies were torpid.  I couldn’t remember exactly what that meant. 

And that’s when I remembered the dream.  And the word specious.  I couldn’t look it up fast enough.  Sure, I’d heard it before, but I had no idea what it meant.  Deceptive.  More precisely, “having a false look of truth or genuineness.”

Is there any way this could possibly be a good thing?