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?