The title I was considering for this piece was, “When Metaphors Get Distracted and Wander Off Into the Dead Marshes where the Fallen of Middle Earth Lie Waiting to Capture Their Souls….” But unfortunately it didn't fit.
Photo by Evil Erin
We're all familiar with similes and metaphors, right? These can be great ways to infuse your writing with some punch and visual pizzazz. However, sometimes in the process of getting that metaphor written down, something happens, and the plane that was supposed to quickly and efficiently connect the object of your description and your metaphor ends up going all Oceanic Flight 815 on you and crashes somewhere on a remote island where weird things happen and you're trying to get rescued, but have also kind of resigned yourself to the fact that you're way off course and no one will be looking for you.
In other words, the last part of the previous paragraph is something you generally don't want to do. I'm not aware of a specific literary term for a rambling or forgotten metaphor (although there should be one), but you generally want to avoid them.
However, these distracted metaphors can be highly effective in works of comedy. You're probably familiar with the bit that many stand-up comedians have about how they like their men/women like they like their coffee: in a cup, with a spoon in them, hot and bitter, the list goes on. If you google the phrase, you'll find even more examples of how the metaphor doesn't quite go in the direction you'd expect.
Another way these can form is when a metaphor starts with a simple comparison, but more and more detail goes into the comparison until the intended link has all but completely fallen apart. The character may not even remember where he or she started the metaphor by the time they're done talking. This clip from the Colbert Report illustrates what this looks like in practice.
Have you ever had a metaphor get distracted and wander off on you?
PRACTICE
Speaking of practice, let's test out some wonky metaphors on our own. Take fifteen minutes and write a scene about the morning after New Year's Eve, and throw in some metaphors that either take the reader to an unexpected comparison, or that end up getting completely sidetracked and start chugging along in a completely different direction. Post your practice in the comments and check out the work of your fellow writers.
Metaphors. As Lady Macbeth wipes the blood off her hands as a metaphor of cleansing herself of the turmoil within her own life. Simple and elegant. When writing stories, metaphors are only necessary to help bring the reader in, allow them to relate to what the story is telling or what the characters are doing. In this, keep metaphors simple and easily associated.
Very good blurb on use of metaphors. As you write, metaphors should come along easily as they flow with the action of your story. Do not stretch for metaphors, or you’ll lose your reader with even a quick metaphor that doesn’t fit or much make sense to them.
I have more.
Regibald Inkling
http://regibaldinkling.blogspot.com/
Too bad your original title didn’t fit. It was awesome. And the Colbert video was hilarious. Too many people use cliche metaphors or ruin them by overdoing them. It was nice to see them spoofed so people understand what happens when they’re extended too far. Just a subtle sprinkle of comparison here and there does more to make an image flourish than a flood of it. No point in drowning your prose and stifling what could be beautiful and natural development.
I like your metaphors Sophie!
Thanks.
Here is a snippet of a post I am releasing in about an hour.
1. Is this a metaphor? (sad I’m not sure)
2. Is it decently written? (I’m realistic on my writing abilities. Decently is above average for me)
——————-
I fell into a trap that has detoured me more than once. I seem to think that life is made up of the big events. The year seems to be broken up into birthdays, holidays, vacations and summer. I seem to have the idea that as long as we have some big events each year I am fulfilling my duty as a good father.
This is like trying to create a masterpiece using a three inch paint brush. This is something you use to change the color of your walls not create art. It takes small strokes with a little finesse to create art. There is no detail with a big paintbrush. Big paint brushes get outside of the lines. They crash into the canvas and cause the colors to overlap too much. With a big paintbrush the final product is abstract. Abstract art is great. An abstract family isn’t so great.
To create deeper relationships in my family I need to get more committed to grabbing the detail capable paintbrushes. It takes more time to paint this way. To achieve the cumulative value of the finished work I will have to make a lot of small deposits of time over a longer period of time. I have to get up close and personal with the canvas. I have to pay attention to the colors; mixing them carefully. The slightest missed stroke has the potential to severely alter the final product. I can’t just crash into the room every few months, make a couple of marks and hope to accomplish anything.
My life is just as busy as anyone else’s. I need to do everything in my power to avoid trying to make up for lost time by grabbing the biggest brush possible. In the critical areas of life it’s impossible to make up for lost time.
I don’t want to look back in twenty years and wish I had paid attention to the size of brush I was using.
Seems like a metaphor to me. I liked the metaphor, I think you carried it through nicely. The piece still needs polishing, but IMHO you have a gem in the making. I liked the second paragraph, I liked the getting up close and personal with your canvas. i liked your ending. Good job.
Thanks for reading and giving me your thoughts!
Here is what I ended up posting to my blog.
http://www.raisingwomen.com/what-size-is-my-paintbrush/
Hello, World
Here I go,
The day after the New Year, the sun met my memories first,
making temptation be the headliner to all my thoughts steamy. The mission was
impossible how I got out alive from such a caged atmosphere last night. The
people celebrated as we watch a ball drop without returning the joy to our
hands. The perfect gift was wrapped in an iron building and heavily guarded by
man with a need to make sure you are human. I couldn’t remember more than this
but I hope you were able to take a short trip with me to the night where joy,
happiness, and music played the covenant to all my sorrows of that year.
Forgive any typo/grammatical errors. Making my first reply via touchscreen cell phone.
—
Weathered hands reminded me more of a beaten sailboat than a cask of wine. Cask! What a name for a wine barrel! More like a cask-ET.
“Life’s a fine wine,” had said the nurse. “Only gon’ get better wi’ time.”
As a young man I might have thought she was making a move on me. Of course, as a young man I wouldn’t be here. The sign didn’t read ‘Green Meadows Place Where Things Get Better With Time’. I was at Green Meadows Nursing Home. A few years ago they even dropped ‘Rehab Center’ from the name. Life, a fine wine! No one came to THIS cellar thinking they were getting better. Our bodies decay substituting effervescence of a fine sparkling wine for the stink of old age.
Life! Pairs well with youth and ambition. The menu says Chef’s Soup today. Nothing pairs well with gruel.
Bold move! Freewriting with the cellphone. I like that Justin.
Good metaphors. Way to take a cliche to it’s conclusion. It’s very funny, especially this line, “No one came to THIS cellar thinking they were getting better.” It was a little jumpy, but that’s alright for a first draft, especially when it’s compose on a phone!
Thanks, Joe. Since I primarily consume content on my phone, I don’t often comment or interact. But as I mulled over metaphors the image of that old man came into my mind, grumbling on about and hyper-analyzing some platitude a well-meaning nurse had employed.
I loved this, Justin. I can’t think of anything that pairs well with gruel, either. Nice.
Thanks, Paul. It was a fun exercise!
This is hilarious! I have an incredibly hard time coming up with creative metaphors. Everything either sounds cliches, or off-base. I’ll try to put a couple of well-considered metaphors into my writing today.
Yes, please do, Abigail. And then share them here!
Here’s my latest one then: “Her needle dipped and rose like a tiny ship through a sea of cloth, then plunged into her finger at the sound of pounding on the door.”
Unfortunately, that’s a simile. But it’s a very nice simile. Love the image.
Ha! Talk about getting distracted…how’s this one?
“She didn’t have to glance around the cabin to see the security cameras, cold unblinking eyes swiveling in their sockets, tracking every hair on her body.”
I think metaphors are difficult because they take so much commitment. You really have to go out on a limb and state that something *is*, it’s not just *like*.
This is interesting, Church. I like the fragmented almost poetic way you describe things. I’d love it if you were a bit more specific. Reading this, I didn’t understand why you felt caged, what was the perfect gift, or what sorrows you’re talking about. It’s clear something meaningful is happening though, so I’m definitely intrigued.
Thanks for posting!
Hereeeee we go:
Phew. The morning after New Years Eve. I have slept away
elven hours of the New Year already and boy do I feel like shit. I am one of
those people who join in with the pre-party enthusiasm, the hopes and the
goals. But then, when that countdown is happening down to midnight and we are
all working together in a drunken daze, I remember the previous year’s goals,
and the previous. And then, as the New Year crashes into me, I become an
ephemeroptera. A little mayfly who had just been sat down by Mum and Dad
mayfly. ‘Son,’ they say to me. ‘You’ve done so well and we’re very proud of you
– you can hover better than any fly your age!’ I sit quietly, unsure why I was
being treated with these accolades. Mum and Dad look at each other, exchanging
worried looks as if silently trying to decide who should speak. It’s Mum who
opens her mouth first. ‘Dear, you’ve grown so much since you hatched this
morning, I’m afraid it won’t be long until you start getting too old to fly.’ I
am tremendously confused. Mum and Dad can’t fly, but they’re super old! ‘What
do you mean, Mum?’ Glum faces all round. ‘Well dear it’s most likely you will
start getting weak this evening, and then… well and then you will pass on
honey. Like me and your father will this afternoon.’
I feel raw as the full extent of my mortality smashes into me. Just a little mayfly, bound to go through the motions of everybody else. I groan and curse New Years and its illusions of hope, and gratefully return my hung-over self to unconsciousness.
Liked this one. Good imagination you got there!
Wow, this was an excellent wandering metaphor, very imaginative, but I didn’t get completely lost. 🙂
Thanks Erika and Daniel, any feedback is always
awesome and yours are particularly confidence boosting 🙂
Light cascades across the bedsheets sheets like a sea of white fabric. However, instead of the smell of sea spray, Greg smelled remnants of cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and hopefully his own piss.
“What the hell happened last night” he groaned.
He reached over to his phone and read the time and date.
3:34pm. 1/1/13.
“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough… enough…, sleep. Yawn.”
He yawned like a moaning zombie; making his cat leap from the end of the bed. The black and white cat gave him a disapproving look before exiting through the door.
“Jeez, Happy New Year to you too Mister.”
He got up, slowly, and heard his back crack in three different places. He felt forty years old, although he was only eighteen.
“I guess my first and second New Year Resolutions are set out for me then. Drink less and fix my back. Third might be to talk to myself less often.”
Yes, that would be a good idea. Greg agreed with himself.
A fun topic! Here’s my brief practice:
Mark cracked an eye open and looked at the clock. What day
was this? Oh, yeah, New Year’s Day. He groaned and lurched up out of bed.
Too much motion, too fast. He raced for the bathroom like a
bat out of hell. Except bats out of hell don’t start their days heaving last
night’s Jagerbombs into the toilet. Do they even drink? And those little bat
stomachs, how much could they hold, anyway? Wonder what a drunk bat looks like
when it’s trying to fly out of hell?
Mark had answers for none of those questions, but he did
feel slightly better now. He chugged off to the kitchen like a freight train
just leaving the rail yard. “Wonder what kind of coffee a freight train would
like?”, he asked himself.
Haha! I would assume a freight train would take its coffee in car-loads. 😀
This was fun to read.
Yup, car-loads makes sense!
Mark does sound a lot like myself. Except I engage this train of thought completely sober any given day! Love it!
Thanks, Joana
Lol – thanks for the video clip, loved the props! And, thanks for the post. I know just the segment that I need to apply this to in my WIP. Hi ho, hi ho,…..
Leonard kicked the bucket at 6am on New Years day. The last ten hours of his life spent pinned to the couch watching a Lord of the Rings marathon. He loved watching Lord of the Rings. To him it was like a greasy grilled cheese sandwich .. which he loved, all rough and crispy fighty on the outside with artistic poety gooeyness at the core. Man he loved those sandwiches. Grandma use to make them so good and tasty. She’d cut off the crust and serve them with ketchup… those were the days.
I blinked at the bright sunlight. My eyeballs felt seared,
as though I had been watching someone weld for too long, then I’d gone and
watched a movie in a dark room, and then I’d walked out into the white sunlight
of one of the brightest days of the year – which I had. I mean, I had walked
out into the white sunlight of one of the brightest days of the year, I had not
watched anyone weld nor had I watched a movie. I’d had no time to do so. My
schedule was stuffed fuller than my grandma’s freezer at Christmastime. And let
me tell you, that is one full freezer! My grandma loves to cook, and at Christmas
time the dear woman gets carried away with shortbread, Christmas cake, white
Christmas cake, sugar cookies, gingersnaps, two turkeys and mince pie after
mince pie! Yeah, I had plenty to do without sitting down to waste two hours of
my time on some fictional person’s too-dramatic life-story.
Fun reading, Erika. That freezer could be my mother-in-law’s!
Do people actually get up in New Year’s morning? For me, January 1st is pretty
much like a David Lynch movie: you don’t really understand what the fuck is
going on, where you are and start to question why the hell there is a midget in a
cowboy hat in your bedroom (is this my bedroom? Because it sure does look
like a bar). So, I drift back to sleep and hope that, when I open my eyes,
I am back at my real bedroom with no midgets and no vodka bottles touching
my nose.
I don’t dream. Even though it is said that drunk people have the best dreams full of color like when you watch The Wizard of Oz high. I don’t have that. At least, never on New Years. I wake up with a jab on my ribs that feels like a Rhino horn pushing a linx away from his babies. I really, really don’t want to steal rhino babies and I say so. I try to say so. I speak and sound like my uncle Tom when he had too much eggnog that christmas all thick and slurry. The rhino does not understand that I really could care less about his babies and keep on poking me. I try to get up when I remember that rhinos are dangerous animals but instead of feeling my shoes on the floor I feel my head cracking on something.
I wake up. It’s January 2nd. I’ll never pass out in bars with midgets and rhinos ever again.
This was really fun to read, I actually found it really alike a Lynch movie because you set the bizarre scene so well, but it was lighter and with more humour! I also liked how you kept going with the comparisons so intently in the second paragraphs because that’s how so many people seem to think and speak when they are hungover/drunk haha
Thank you, Carmen! I had fun writing it too! 🙂
Funny! Pleasantly disorienting, and sparked many mental images. Gotta watch out for those rhino babies, haha.
I woke up at no clear and specific time, but merely bounced between short periods of R.E.M
and awakeness never fully being able to commit to a full nights rest;
thats life though. The bachelor always grades a successful night on
wether or not he wakes up alone and still if he does have company what
is the quality of that company. I ran the previous night through my
brain (like a football coach in the last period who is down 20-15 with 7 minutes left and needs to devise a winning strategy to score a touchdown and take his team to the summit);
I chatted with her for a minute but I got a phone call and in mid
conversation I walked away, but the other one I talked to asked me if I
smoked and I said no so she went outside and finished the cigarette
alone. Dammit if I had’nt have answered that call and maybe if I went
outside with the other one for to give her company maybe my night would
have been different. These pesky analytics a man uses to validate his
inability to land the ball in a basket or be the first to see the
checkered flag are all to typical. However; when he feels a nudge in his
side in the wee hours of the morning; “dhey at ime is et” a muffled
voice against a pillow says ” Pardon me?” the reply, “What time is it”, the male ego is in tact and once again he’s earned his “BACHELORS,” degree!!!!
I apologize for any typing errors in my sentences