Wordplay

I love metaphors. I admit it. I love the paradox that sometimes the best way to evoke the essence of something is to describe something else. I love finding that perfect comparison between two seemingly incomparable subjects and thereby shedding new light on one or both subjects. I love the poetry of a metaphor, the impossible personification of ideas, feelings, things, and places.


Unfortunately, however (and perhaps a bit surprisingly), the metaphor and its cousin the simile can be very tricky to master. The perfect metaphor has the power to zap clarity and freshness into any description—to bring a passage to life—to make what is ordinary suddenly unique. It’s this heady experience that tempts most of us into that wild waltz of synthetic similitude. But don’t be fooled: with all that power comes a lot of responsibility. Misused metaphors can not only brand your writing as that of a rank amateur, they will also rip your readers right out of your story.


This is not just a pitfall of the inexperienced; even veteran authors like Jodi Picoult misstep on occasion. In her book My Sister’s Keeper, her description of a roast beef dinner as a newborn baby curled up on the platter, not only made me gag, it also popped my suspension-of-disbelief bubble and destroyed the verisimilitude of her scene.


Before I go any further with the caveats of Master Metaphor and Madame Simile, let me share some examples of metaphors in marvelous action. These are the kind of metaphors that bring scenes to life and infuse color and vivacity into word pictures. (Unfortunately, as I collected these gems over the years, I neglected to note the sources, so if you’re reading along and find something you’ve written, please accept my adulation of your brilliance and forgive me for not giving due credit.)

• “ice-chip stars”

• “a foggy night like moist black velvet”

• “snow falling in great white blossoms”

• “the air conditioning smelled like a wet sheepdog”

• “a bird of prey suspended like a drifting flake of copper”

• “a chuckle like a drain”

• “stars like crushed diamonds”

• “eyes like pieces of sky”

• “the moon was a chip of bone in the sky”

• “the mists like layers of diaphanous scarves”

• “the sun hung in the sky like a pale coin”

• “feminine calligraphy, like a soft whisper”

• “thread-like pulse”

• “breathing the heavy air felt like sucking on cotton”

• “tasted like morbid vinegar”

• “violet dusk like airy wine”

Three guidelines, in particular, should come into play when considering whether or not to include a metaphor/simile in your writing. But first, just to make sure we’re all on the same page, let me clarify a few terms.


The metaphor directly describes unrelated objects (e.g. “My office carpet is a blue sea.”)


The simile indirectly describes unrelated objects, via words such as “like” and “as” (e.g. “My office looks like a blue sea.”)


I.A. Richards, in his book The Philosophy of Rhetoric, divided the metaphor into two parts, the vehicle and the tenor. Put simply, the tenor is the subject being described and the vehicle is the object doing the describing by way of comparison. (E.g. in “You are my sunshine,” you is the tenor and sunshine is the vehicle.)


The Three Guidelines


1. Make sure it rings true. You want the attention placed on the tenor, not the vehicle. Otherwise, metaphors can spiral into drawn-out, melodramatic descriptions that actually take the attention away from what you’re really trying to describe. For example, “The woman’s mink stole slithered around her neck like hairy boa constrictor angry at being stolen from its hot and humid home in darkest South America.” Which one are you getting a better picture of—the stole or the snake?


You also have to make sure you choose the right vehicle to accurately convey what you’re trying to say about your tenor. Unless you really want to imply that a mink stole somehow looks like a boa constrictor, the snake example above is probably not a good choice. Readers are likely to wind up visualizing a woman with a green snake wrapped around the décolletage of her evening gown.


2. Avoid metaphors that weaken your description. Not all metaphors are of the scintillating variety in the list above. Some can, in fact, rob the vitality right out of your descriptions. Take a look at this line from David Baldacci’s The Winner: “Her skin seemed to be humming against her bones, as though a million bees had plunged into her body.”


The metaphor here is actually pretty good. A million bees plunging into someone’s body does give us a vibrant picture. Unfortunately, however, in this instance, the metaphor actually takes away from the vitality of Baldacci’s verb choice. Without the metaphor, the sentence, and the descriptive intent behind it, steps out in a much more lively—and much more easily accessible—fashion: “Her skin seemed to be humming against her bones.” Or better yet—“Her skin hummed against her bones.”


3. Use sparingly. Too many metaphors in a row, no matter how brilliant they may be on their own, will always sap the immediacy out of prose. During one of my early edits of my Crusade novel Behold the Dawn, I ran across the following passage in the climax: “He hefted the sword like a pole-ax and swung almost before Hugh realized he had gotten free. The blade’s honed edge caught bone just beneath the shoulder joint and cleaved through like a galleon in water.”


By themselves, I think both “hefted the sword like a pole-ax” and “cleaved through like a galleon in water” work pretty well. But side-by-side in subsequent paragraphs, they rob each other of their strengths.


With these guidelines in mind, go hit the keyboard and have a blast with this delightful tool of prose. And metaphors be with you! (Sorry, couldn’t resist...)

Who says conflict is a bad thing? Who says world peace is the most important goal of humanity? Who says arguing with your little brother when you’re a kid means you’ll grow up to be an ill-mannered ruffian?


Obviously, not a writer.


Arguably (after all what isn’t arguable in writing?), the single most important tenet of fiction can be summed up in the saw “no conflict, no story.” You can break every rule in the book (pun intended) and still have a whopper of a story—so long as you remember to throw in a dash of conflict. Or, actually, a heaping tablespoon or two would be preferable.


The simple fact is: fiction has its very basis in conflict. If the main characters aren’t clashing, if there are no wars, if the aliens are content to stay unobtrusively in their own galaxies—then we really don’t have much of a story do we? Think about it. If Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy had hit it off from the beginning, we never would have experienced all that wit and sizzle in Pride and Prejudice. If the North and South had simply resolved their differences over a handshake, Scarlet O’Hara would never have needed to escape a burning Atlanta. And if the Martians had minded their own business back on Mars, Orson Welles could never have made history by freaking out thousands of people with his War of the Worlds radio broadcast.


So how does one go about manufacturing this most precious of story ingredients? Well, happily enough, conflict is actually one of the easiest (and most fun) bits of storycraft. As humans, we all know a little something about anarchy and chaos, and it really isn’t that much of a stretch to borrow some of that from real life and spread it around on the page. But just in case you’re feeling stumped, here are a few suggestions.

• Personality clashes. This is the easiest (and, often, the best) way to throw a little conflict into the mix. Character interaction is always at the heart of any story; therefore, it’s the character clashes that will produce your most consistent conflicts, and generally your most interesting ones as well. The key thing to remember about clashing characters is that they must clash for a realistic reason. Characters who get along perfectly for the first third of the story can’t suddenly, for no apparent reason, explode into a manic fistfight. Of course, we probably don’t want our characters to get along perfectly for the first third of the story (how boring is that, right?). Instead, we try to craft characters who will naturally push each others’ buttons. And I’m not talking just good guy/bad guy confrontations. Make sure your hero is surrounded by foils. If you find yourself with a character who tends to affirm your main character at every turn, spice him up by throwing a little unexpected rebellion into the mix.

• Put characters in unexpected situations. Many stories base their entire premise on this idea (think of the Pevensie siblings tumbling through the wardrobe into Narnia or young upper-class Jim Graham sent to a Japanese prisoner camp in J.G. Ballard’s Empire of the Sun.) But, even if you don’t go quite that far, you can still take advantage of the unexpected by forcing your character into situations and relationships that go against his personality or inclinations. If you have a heroine who is terrified of speaking in public, why not put her in a situation where she has no choice? She’ll either cave under the pressure or rise to the challenge—either way, the reader will be hooked.

• Up the ante. For a long while, I had tacked on my bulletin board a note which read “Think of the ten worst things that could happen to character.” Kind of sadistic, I know. But readers aren’t interested in stories about characters who sail through life without ever encountering hardship, danger, or sadness. Rip your characters apart, put them under excruciating pressure, and then when things look like they couldn’t possibly get any worse—make sure they do.

• Inner and outer battles. Nancy Kress, in her fantastic book Beginnings, Middles & Ends spoke about the necessity of including both inner and outer battles:

  “Every paragraph in your story should accomplish two goals: advance the story (the plot), and develop your characters as real, individual, complex and memorable human beings.”

  In other words, conflict has to occur not just on the larger scale of the novel (whether that be a family crisis or World War III), but also on the smaller theater of the character’s inner life. Every scene must include the outer battle (the physical reaction to conflict) and the inner battle (the psychological and emotional reaction to events). Any scene that lacks one or the other, is teetering on the edge of the Cliff of Not Enough Conflict.

• Building to a climax. Although it’s vital that every scene contain some level of conflict, it’s also important to monitor the general flow of that conflict. You have to open your story with enough conflict to grab the reader’s attention, then keep building on that conflict to keep him reading. But you don’t want to pour on the danger and the distress so thick in the beginning, that you run dry by the end of your story. Using foreshadowing and tension, build your conflict steadily to the high-point of the climax.

• Balance. Stories are about balance. A tale in which is there is no conflict is going to be just about as boring as watching condensation dissipate. But a tale that never pauses to let its characters (or its reader) catch their breath is boring in its own way. We have to find ways to adjust the level of the conflict. We have to give our characters a chance to slow down and get their thoughts gathered for the next attack. Stories must consist of both large- and small-scale battles. Mix things up. Throw in a variety of conflicts in all colors, shapes, and sizes, and keep both your characters and your readers guessing.

Forget what the peace pundits (not to mention your mother) are always telling you, and heap on the conflict. After all, a little peace and quiet never got an author anywhere.

Sometimes the most powerful writing isn’t so much about what’s said as what isn’t said.

“If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.”

—Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon

As a writer, it’s easy to become accustomed to peeking into random characters’ minds. One of the thrills of writing stems from the ability we authors have to be “all-knowing” within the scope of our story worlds. Unlike real life, where we sometimes (make that often) struggle to understand the opinions, emotions, and needs of those around us, in writing we have the power to understand everything. I know why my characters react in sometimes unexpected and seemingly irrational ways. I know their histories, and I know their futures. I never have to wonder why they think or act; I just know.

As a storyteller, it is my job, of course, to share this omniscience of mine with the readers. After all, that’s why we read, right? To find out how and why the characters are going to react. And, indeed, that’s why I write: to share my characters’ experiences, emotions, and opinions with my readers in a way they can understand, commiserate with, and perhaps be empowered by.
But does that mean I should spill everything I know?

Beyond the obvious explanation that readers don’t want to know everything (who cares if the bad guy has an ingrown toenail or how the main character’s best friend happened to purchase his VW Bug?), sometimes the secret to punching up a scene, adding layers of meaning, and accurately mimicking reality, is to leave out certain details. But that (surprise, surprise) is easier said that done.

Hemingway was a master of what is now referred to as the “iceberg principle.” In fact, he took the art of subtext to a level of his own, often expunging everything from his narratives but the bare bones and leaving the reader to glean all the facts merely from the characters’ actions and dialogue. Although not everyone appreciates Hemingway’s sparse style, it’s undeniable that he was able to create a vibrant sense of immediacy and, yes, reality in his stories.

For me, subtext and subtlety share more than just their first three letters. They are, in fact, interchangeable. If I find myself trying to create subtlety in a scene, what I am actually doing is working with the intricacies of subtext. And, if I consciously try to puff up my subtext, the not-so-subtle tool of subtlety becomes my chief utensil. In my fantasy work-in-progress Dreamlander, I’ve struggled with subtext more than in perhaps any other work.

From beginning, one of my POV characters, Allara Katadin, proved herself practically inaccessible to anyone—including me. An introvert who guarded who emotions behind a mask of ice (I found myself privately referring to her as the “Ice Queen,” a title that actually ended up making its way into the story), hid her true feelings and fears even from herself, and rarely said more than was absolutely necessary—she refused to cooperate on the page. The scenes of other POV characters rattled out from beneath my fingertips in comparative effortlessness to the literal hours I spent glaring at the blinking cursor whenever it was Allara’s turn to speak up.

She didn’t want to talk—not to me and not to the other characters—and when she did actually thaw herself out enough to venture a comment or two, her words were veiled. She rarely said what she meant; she skirted around sensitive subjects and refused to hash them out in the open.

Naturally, all of this left me burbling under my breath and yanking at my hair. But as I continued to battle my way through her scenes, I began to notice something. Sometimes what Allara wasn’t saying became the focal point for entire scenes. As she and the other characters danced their way around her fears and her anger, surprising patterns began to emerge, and I began to see facets of Allara’s character that, although they had always been there, under the surface, I had never really noticed or understood.

Her refusal to speak out demanded the necessity of some serious subtext for her scenes. She allowed me to layer details and subtlety (of both dialogue and action) into her scenes. She forced to me to be more creative and meticulous in showing her attitudes and opinions, rather than taking the easy route and sharing these things through dialogue or narrative.

It took me all of half the book to fully understand this character (and I’m sure I still have much to learn), but she’s also taught me much about subtext. When I first began writing, I approached her as if the one-eighth of her character that protruded above the water was all there was. Little did I know that her true self lay submerged far below the surface. After a little diving (and much pulling out of my hair), what I found in this character was no less than an introduction to the art of iceberging.

My education is ongoing, of course, and something tells me that I’m still looking at the just the very top of the iceberg. But, although certainly frustrating in its intricacies at moments, I’ve no doubt it will continue to be an exhilarating learning process.

Art has to bear up under the strange dichotomy of both following set patterns and breaking those patterns. Writing is certainly no different.
The so-called Rules of writing are what make stories work. And, probably more importantly, they’re what get authors published. Readers and publishers alike expect stories to follow certain parameters. Authors are supposed to maintain consistent POVs, follow traditional story arcs, and play fair with foreshadowing and revelation. When authors violate these (and myriad other) “rules,” they risk angering the two most important people in their professional lives—the publisher who pays them and the reading public who ensure that they continue to be paid.


Authors who blow off the recognized standards of fiction aren’t likely to make it very far in the business. Or are they?
Although the likes of Aristotle have been writing fiction how-to for centuries, the current glut of instructional manuals and workshops are a relatively new innovation. Every age in history has recognized certain (sometimes varying) “good forms” of writing, but the would-be writer of yore certainly wasn’t able to stroll down to the corner and buy himself the latest copy of Ye Olde Writer’s Digeste.


I find it very intriguing to note that some of the greatest literary minds of all time thrived in this period before our current inundation and even obsession with THE RULES. The likes of Dickens, Cervantes, the Brontës, and even more modern literary giants such as Conrad and Conan Doyle, were certainly great students of their art, but they were not slaves to the recognized institutions and time-honored guidelines of that art. Even more interesting is the fact that the greatest writers of our own times are often better at innovating than they are at following the old paths.


Now please don’t think I am encouraging literary anarchy. Writing without rules would be chaos indeed. From the tiniest dictum about comma placement to the broadest expectation regarding plot use—rules are not only important, they are necessary. If someone was paying me to read every book in which I’ve stumbled across a glaring, irritating, confusing, or farcical gaffe, I’d probably be able to afford my own private mountain by now.


The bare fact of the matter remains that authors need Rules. Writing fiction—especially novel-length fiction—is a precarious and heady experience, and we need all the guidance we can get. It is a tremendous blessing that information about writing is so readily available these days. I’ll never forget the first writing how-to book I read. I was in the process of writing my fourth novel, and up to that point, I’d written mostly on sheer instinct. The fact that I’ve always read voraciously meant that I’d already been instilled with some pretty good habits. But not until I began learning about the framework beneath a story’s trappings—about all the little gears and cogs that make a story work—did the old light bulb finally flash.


Once I understood the rules—once I understood the basics of POV, dialogue, setting, character, plot, theme, etc.—suddenly, I not only had a gut feeling about what made a story work, I knew. Gut feelings are awesome. I truly believe that no one can succeed as a writer without them. But without knowledge to back up those gut feelings, a writer is essentially groping around in the dark.


That said, the rules can only take you so far. In fact, the whole idea that these rules are even Rules at all is a mistaken notion. Writing, as a form of art, is all about experimentation, innovation, and expansion. Within the confines of standard expecations, you can only expand so much. In truth, there is only one rule of writing: All rules are made to be broken.
Now before you get all excited and start running around the room screaming “Révolution!”, let me tap on the brakes. The rules are most definitely made to be broken (just ask James Joyce), but they aren’t made to broken often and certainly not by just anyone. To just throw up your hands and ignore the rules indiscriminately is stupid. Why would anyone—publisher or reader—want to stumble through the ramblings of a beginning author who didn’t even have the discipline to learn the bare bones of his craft?


Before you can go around smashing (or even poking at) the esteemed foundations of literature, you first have to understand those foundations. To break a rule without knowing you’ve broken it is ignorance. To break a rule intentionally—that’s innovation.


But, be wary. Innovation is a risky and oft-misunderstood venture. Just because you break a rule on purpose doesn’t mean your readers are going to appreciate it. So proceed with caution. Even veteran authors don’t cast caution to the wind very often.
I can’t think off-hand of even one rule I’ve ever had the need to intentionally break. But, in the back of my mind, I know that I have earned (and, in some cases, am still earning) the right to break a rule should I ever need to.


Révolution, anyone?