How do you write descriptively while also keeping the reader engaged? Try personification. Personification is a literary device used to describe a non-human thing as having human characteristics.
Photo by Shandi-Lee
Here is how reader Adriana Willey used personification in response to Wednesday's prompt, Fall.
In autumn, I hear the wind. He is alive and leans in to whisper. His words are gentle and flowing. They carry a cadence of up and down, loud and soft, strong and still. He tells me that it will all be ok; everything will turn out in the end. The silence is his breathing in.
Isn't that beautiful? Here are four things Adriana does to personify the wind that you can use to personify anything:
1. She calls the wind “he” not “it.”
Clearly, the first step to personifying anything is to refer to it using human pronouns. Humans don't call each other “it.”
2. She describes the winds movements with human verbs.
Obviously, the wind doesn't actually whisper, nor is it capable of leaning in. It also doesn't speak or breathe in, which Adriana also credits the wind for. However, it's not a stretch to connect these human actions to the wind.
When you personify, you want to give the object human qualities that are already reminiscent of its own characteristics. So for a tall poplar tree, you might connect its height to the height of a father next to his little children. “The poplar tree is tall, like a father towering over his children,” you could say. That's not quite personification yet, though. It's just a simile.
To personify, just cut out the “like.”
“The poplar tree is my father. He towers over me.”
3. She gives the wind a voice.
“He tells me that it will all be ok; everything will turn out in the end.”
When non-human things speak, they instantly become more relatable.
Here's a great experiment. Try having a dialogue with an inanimate object. It worked for Bambi. It can work for your writing.
4. She gives the wind empathy and emotion.
The most interesting thing about Adriana's passage is that the wind knows what she's feeling and comforts her. To Adriana, the wind isn't just some air particles colliding against the cells of her skin. It is an old friend, a grandfather-like persona who picks her up when she's down.
We all want to be reminded we are not alone. What better way to do that than portray the world as not some cold scientific thing composed of atoms and cells, but a place where even the wind can hold your hand.
PRACTICE
“If stones could talk,” the saying goes. Well today they can.
Personify something. Whatever you want. Perhaps the bookshelf in your office, the cool November air, your refrigerator, the tree in your backyard, your pet gerbil, or even the bird making a ruckus outside of your window.
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments.
There is a large window in my office that has a great view. She knows the bitter cold of December. The pounding rain of April showers. The scorching July heat has aged her metal edges. Kids run by her with laughter. Adults walk by chatting on cell phones. She sees dreamers chasing their dreams. Lovers walking hand in hand. Each day that passes, things change and she sees it all one moment at a time.
Yes! Personifying a window. Great idea. I never would have thought about it. And you picked the perfect qualities, comparing the window to a barrier, that endures and protects against the weather, and a witness. Windows see things. Makes perfect sense. I like it.
Thanks Joe, I appreciate it. It was fun to do this exercise. I think it would be cool to refine it more and then have a picture of the window I am referring to to go with the text.
The window I’m referring to also is above the County Clerk where many couples get married and I wanted to include something about a “happily ever after” scene but I was not sure how to describe that well in a way that fit.
Ah gotcha. That would be interesting. You could just describe the wedding as if a bystander were watching, talk about how the bystander feels, and then reveal that the bystander is actually a window. It would work if you revealed it at the beginning, too. The key is how you describe the wedding.
There is a large window in my office that has a great view. She knows the bitter cold of December. The pounding rain of April showers. The scorching July heat has aged her metal edges. Kids run by her with laughter. Adults walk by chatting on cell phones. She sees dreamers chasing their dreams. Lovers walking hand in hand. Each day that passes, things change and she sees it all one moment at a time.
Yes! Personifying a window. Great idea. I never would have thought about it. And you picked the perfect qualities, comparing the window to a barrier, that endures and protects against the weather, and a witness. Windows see things. Makes perfect sense. I like it.
Thanks Joe, I appreciate it. It was fun to do this exercise. I think it would be cool to refine it more and then have a picture of the window I am referring to to go with the text.
The window I’m referring to also is above the County Clerk where many couples get married and I wanted to include something about a “happily ever after” scene but I was not sure how to describe that well in a way that fit.
Ah gotcha. That would be interesting. You could just describe the wedding as if a bystander were watching, talk about how the bystander feels, and then reveal that the bystander is actually a window. It would work if you revealed it at the beginning, too. The key is how you describe the wedding.
My bed is a temptress. She entices me with her sensuous cool skin on warm summer nights; calling me to come into her and rest. She enslaves me with her warm, billowy form on cold winter mornings; holding me so close, my mind cannot comprehend life without her. She is a codependent whore keeping me enmeshed in complacency and sloth. She knows I cannot say no to her wooing. She knows I need her, but she demand more than what I should give her. I abhor her. I adore her.
I like this. Great internal conflict between your desire to be a good person and your desire for her. This is good, “She enslaves me with her warm, billowy form on cold winter mornings” as a general description, but showing us a scene where your trapped by her in present or past tense would be better. In other words, show one instance of enslavement rather than generalizing.
I also like how you called your bed a whore.
Yes, she is a dirty whore until laundry day, then she’s a temptress 🙂
Haha! Wow Tom.
My bed is a temptress. She entices me with her sensuous cool skin on warm summer nights; calling me to come into her and rest. She enslaves me with her warm, billowy form on cold winter mornings; holding me so close, my mind cannot comprehend life without her. She is a codependent whore keeping me enmeshed in complacency and sloth. She knows I cannot say no to her wooing. She knows I need her, but she demand more than what I should give her. I abhor her. I adore her.
I like this. Great internal conflict between your desire to be a good person and your desire for her. This is good, “She enslaves me with her warm, billowy form on cold winter mornings” as a general description, but showing us a scene where your trapped by her in present or past tense would be better. In other words, show one instance of enslavement rather than generalizing.
I also like how you called your bed a whore.
Yes, she is a dirty whore until laundry day, then she’s a temptress 🙂
Haha! Wow Tom.
My journal is my best friend. She listens to my silent cries and like a mother measuring her child’s height and weight she records my growth chapter by chapter. I love the way she mirrors my soul back to me and feeds me my own words from yesteryear to nourish my spirit. As my journal fades to yellow, its pages often splotched with inky tear stains, I gratefully discover the wisdom and truth within are engraved in my heart, no longer dependent on day-to-day talks. Like a mother, she has done her duty and her child has now grown. So I take my journal and publish its pages to children yet to be born, cherishing the moments we had together and sharing them with the next generation.
My journal is my best friend. She listens to my silent cries and like a mother measuring her child’s height and weight she records my growth chapter by chapter. I love the way she mirrors my soul back to me and feeds me my own words from yesteryear to nourish my spirit. As my journal fades to yellow, its pages often splotched with inky tear stains, I gratefully discover the wisdom and truth within are engraved in my heart, no longer dependent on day-to-day talks. Like a mother, she has done her duty and her child has now grown. So I take my journal and publish its pages to children yet to be born, cherishing the moments we had together and sharing them with the next generation.
The fan knocked, knocked, knocked against the wood.
She sighed. The air was kissing her skin hot, her breath dry in the afternoon. She scratched her shoulders as her wife beater clung lazily on her arms.
“So hot.”
She shook her head. She inhaled deep. The dry air scathed her lungs and she started coughing.
“This summer.”
The messenger beeped.
“Get a job.”
The PC monitor blinked a her. She glared right back.
She clacked on the keyboard. Tap, tap, tap.
“I can get a job, I just don’t want to.”
Beep.
“Sure. Whatever. Stay a loser.”
She huffed.
The birds chirped and played with the cans on the roof. Ting, Tang, Ting.
She leaned back on her chair. Her head faced up the ceiling. It stared at her fixed. Still monolithic. All white.
“Ceiling you’ve been watching me all day.”
It creaked.
“You think? Should I get a job? Or maybe just get a boyfriend to spend money on money.”
A beep.
She dropped down.
“Don’t get any stupid ideas like getting a boyfriend.”
She frowned at the monitor.
“How would you? Are you spying on me.”
The monitor flashed.
“No. Maybe, I just know how your mind works.”
She flashed her teeth.
“That’s it. I’m so getting a boyfriend. And you can’t do anything about it.”
Smile and Enter.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Get a JOB!!!”
She huffed. She turned around. The sun glared at her through the windows. The fan still knocking.
She stood up and hit it lightly. At first it stopped then it started clicking harder. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…
“Whoops,” she said.
She turned around and the door hit her on the left toe.
“Oww.”
She limped to her bed. Which was sleeping next to her PC. The monitor kept beeping.
She yawned.
“Stupid summer. Stupid heat.”
The beg hugged her back warm. Her eyes drooped. Her head started lolling.
“~Ah~”
Her eyes closed. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
BEEP.
The monitor angry and red.
A big message.
“Clean the house at least. Make yourself useful.”
If the stones on the pavement could talk, they’d probably be complaining: those office ladies and their high-heeled shoes! Or just about any ladies, they add, since high heels – especially stilettos – are just about everywhere these days. Pointy red Prada shoes stamping on cigarette butts, excited children with dirty sneakers and their skateboards (ouch!, one cries at a recent memory). And it’s not like the men are sine reprehensione – oh no – those shoes haven’t improved since their teenage days. They note how jogging is more and more popular among urban gentlemen; at they very worst, their sneakers bring over sand and gravel, and scratch the stones’ faces. It’s hell – they want to blink and shake their faces, but hey, they’re stones.
They’re all very touchy on the subject of dogs. They wouldn’t want to argue with two-legged creatures about it. Their view of the things is too – flawed, they say. The stones note how humans just love to take those cuddly four-legged hate crimes out for walks. Every time one walks over, they pray for the creature’s continence – until it reaches the grass. Being neighbours, you’d think the grass would want to screw the stones over for it. But they’re just grass, right? Around these parts, no faction is lucky. Everybody gets dog presents at one point in their long lives. Just check with them – there’s not a stone around these parts that wouldn’t share their experience – if they’re feeling up to it.
It is raining. I grab for my folding umbrella, and arm wrestle
with it as I head out for the bus. It is happy, being my shelter from the rain,
yet when the bus approaches, my umbrella refuses to refold. It is resentful
that it must go back into the enclosed, out of view position it has held for so
long. While I have enjoyed our sun, our warmth, it has been forced into
seclusion. My pink flowery shelter is stubborn, pouts, throws tantrums as I
determine to grab control. It takes the bus driver’s manly strength to compel
obedience.
I’ve purchased a new one, purple, and left my pink flowery
umbrella in the bus shelter where it can rejoice in sheltering someone else.