C. G. McGinn


Ramblings about Books and Writing

Talk a Good Game

I haven't 'blogged' in a couple of weeks. And the reason is because I haven't written much of anything either. I don't like talking about writing if I'm not actually doing it. It makes this whole endeavor seem so superficial. 

When I've tried to write recently, I've stumbled through it and I haven't been happy with the finished product. I'm following an outline, which is new for me. I don't like the constraint, but I know that if I just write without direction instead of having a short story, I'll have pages and pages of good content that never actually goes anywhere, and never ends. I guess that's what my real problem is: I can never seem to finish what I start. 

There may be some hope, however. It's a long weekend and I managed to take Tuesday off as well. So maybe this is the week I fall off the wagon, and get back on the horse.  

Had a strange dream last night where me, and two co-workers were having tea with two elderly strangers in a dining room to a home that didn't belong to any of us. The home looked as though it belonged to a very well-to-do elderly couple different from the two we were having tea with. Somehow we all knew that none of us belonged here. There were doilies over polished wood surfaces. The windows were lined with translucent curtains. It was sunny outside, but, as in many of my dreams, the outside world was blurred and indiscernible despite the presence of light.

There was a bowl of raspberry's on the table and one of my two co-workers, we'll call him "O'Dave" had convinced himself that upon eating the berry's he could tell the difference between 'good' raspberry seeds and supposedly 'bad' seeds. The 'good' seeds he would consume, but the bad he would spit out into his hand. He would then take them over to the trash compactor, which was conveniently located in the dining room where we were all sitting, and throw them in there. Only the compactor turned out to be an incinerator, and as the bad seeds burned, he explained to us how it was the only way to take the bad seeds out of circulation, and that somehow his consumption of the good seeds would eventually end up producing more good berry's. We accepted this twisted form of dream-logic and continued to drink tea and talk with the old couple until I eventually work up.

Dreams can be so strange.  

I like to think there is meaning to our dreams. I'm not sure what most of this dream was about, but that part about the raspberries I get. The Wife and I have been on a smoothy kick lately and we've consumed our fair share of raspberries and blackberries. What I didn't realize was how many seeds end up in your mouth while drinking a smoothy. It brings an all new meaning to the word 'grit'. Where the drinks less sweet and delicious and more like drinking V8 veg juice, I don't think I'd continue to drink them.

Ok, so that doesn't really explain why there were good and bad seeds or any of that, but at least we can all breath easy knowing why the hell I'm dreaming about raspberries in the first place.