Tag Archives: metaphor

Vivid vs. Violet Verbiage — The Vivid

Now that we’ve cleared up the meaning of purple prose, I can talk a little bit about what makes great prose so beautifully vivid.

Please note that, for all I’m warning you to avoid the overly-ostentatious verbiage, I’m not recommending reducing your vocabulary to the grade-school level.  No, your writing should always bring some challenge to the reader — it should expand their horizons, imaginative, philosophical, and intellectual.

Now, what makes prose beautiful?  Quite simply, it is using good words well.  Besides all the things we’ve talked about elsewhere (rhythm, cadence, sound), it is fundamentally about using the right words at the right time.  For instance, both “foggy” and “murky” can describe an obscured environment, but they convey this sense in two totally different ways.  Foggy has a more pleasant connotation, whereas murky suggests latent evil and mystery.

Likewise, “gloomy” and “murky” both have dark connotations, but in different ways.  Gloomy has a feeling of something sad, repressed, weighted down, rather passively bringing people in that environment into the same sort of state.  Murky almost feels more actively evil…something that tries to entangle hapless travelers in confusion and danger.  (It is not for no reason that Tolkien called the dark, sinister version of the Greenwood “Mirkwood.”)

All right.  So, we know that we need to use the right word for the job, and to construct our sentences carefully, descriptively, and rhythmically.  But what else?  Is there anything else?

I’ve read some great fiction where the writers used clear, expressive prose.  Sentences flowed with no jarring rhythmical errors, scenes came to life with bright and lush description…. And that was fine.  I love those books.  They are beautiful, well-written, and have their own flair of poetry and lyrical merit.

Lately I’ve discovered something else, though — a new way to bring life to prose.  I first noticed it in Maggie Stiefvater’s The Scorpio Races.  Some people may think she went overboard on her metaphorical prowess, but simply the fact of what she did made me completely reevaluate how I thought about “poetic” prose.

For instance, in The Raven Boys, she talks about how Ronan “dissolved what was left of his heart in electronic loops.”  This simple sentence is sheer. utter. genius.  Just look at how much she conveys, how vividly she conveys it, in so few words.  The dissolving suggests just how loud the music is playing.  Instead of telling us exactly that Ronan is listening to techno or electronica, she suggests it through “electronic loops.”  And the best part of all is that she says “what was left of his heart” instead of “his heart” which in just a few words clues the reader into a hugely important aspect of this kid’s character.

So what exactly did Stiefvater do?  She used fairly typical language — but in remarkably unexpected ways.  I remember in The Scorpio Races she talked about bicycles “bucking off” their riders, or how someone’s breath is “dark, the underside of the sea.”  For one thing, we don’t usually think of someone’s breath being “dark”…but what a vivid picture that paints!  And describing it as the “underside of the sea” links the character to the wild, mysterious, and deadly sea.  She employs a metaphor without ever using “like” or “as”, but in a way, the comparison is even stronger.

I have to credit Stiefvater for opening my eyes to a whole new way of understanding vivid language.  It invokes a fresh and almost…skewed…way of looking at reality, in the sense that you’re still examining reality, but not straight-on as most people do.  You look for connections that you never knew existed.  When you make a comparison or a metaphor, you avoid the old cliched tropes, the old standbys, the familiar similarities.  You look for the unexpected, the startling, the “why didn’t I ever think of that” connections — and I don’t mean you’re trying to shock or appall your reader.  You’re trying to delight by making them see the world in a new way.

For instance, say you wanted to describe your character running away as fast as possible.  You could say, “Anna bolted, fast as a rabbit.”  Yawn.  Everyone knows rabbits are fast.  Everyone knows that when you want to describe something as fast, you use a rabbit.  Booooring.  Well, what if you said, “Anna bolted, quick as fear.”  Huhhh???  Suddenly that invokes whole new vistas of meaning.  Not only is there the suggestion that Anna is running because she’s terrified, but it also makes you think about what fear is like, maybe in a way you’ve never thought of before.  In other words — you think about the thing being described as well as the thing used to make the description.

Sometimes even inverting a description can be a fun way to convey an idea.  For instance, going back to the fear idea, we all know how “fear runs like ice through her veins.”  But what if you read, “a chill inched through her veins like fear.”  Nice.  Or, similarly, “shame rushed like blood to my cheeks.”  We all know that blood does rush to your cheeks when you’re ashamed or embarrassed, but really, you don’t feel the blood so much as the shame.  It’s a quirky way of making you think twice about how you understand both shame and blushing.

Another way of spicing up the prose is to use a metaphor which itself contrasts two things that are either vastly different in character, or vastly different in degree.  For instance, in Prism I describe a conflict between two characters as being “like watching a fight between lions or gods.”  On the one hand, I suggest the rather raw, animal anger driving them — something not human, but in a sub-human way (though the lion image is intentionally used to convey something awesome and majestic, as well as terrifying).  But on the other hand, they are compared to gods, suggesting something so high above ordinary human experience that it’s almost incomprehensible — something also not human, but in that lofty, super-human sort of way.  In both cases, you get a sense of the utter foreignness of their conflict, but in two opposite ways.  They are both these things, and yet at the same time we know that they’re just two men.

Using language like this can really add another dimension to your prose.  It’s not necessary to do it all the time (and some readers might not like it), but when you do, using language in new and unexpected ways can really delight and tantalize your reader.

Notice that, even while the descriptions are unexpected, they don’t pull you out of the fictional world the way purple prose does.  I’d almost argue that it weaves you into the world of imagination tighter than ever.  The experience of reading a book like that — for me — is so…wildly alive that I don’t want to leave.  Especially if the descriptions really do a good job of matching the narrating character’s voice.  That’s hugely important — but the topic for another post.

Finally, notice that in these few examples I’ve given, no huge long multisyllabic words were used that required the venerable Oxford English Dictionary to decipher.  You can create beautiful, vivid, unbelievably poetic prose with ordinary (though not necessarily simple) words.  In a sense the most important skill it requires is not a vast vocabulary, but an ability to see the world in an excitingly fresh way.  Give it a shot.  I bet you’ll find that it makes you a better writer — even if you don’t use these metaphoric techniques often — simply because it broadens your vision and view of reality.

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Vivid vs. Violet Verbiage — The Violet

As S.K. noted in her last blog post…it’s been a crazy end to the old year and an even crazier start to the new year for us around here.  Apologies for being MIA…

At any rate, today I want to talk about something I’ve said I want to talk about many times in the past — the habit of writing vivid prose.  Now, to approach this topic properly, we first need to distinguish vivid prose from amethystine cabochons of literary splendor.  Yes.  We want to know what makes prose purple, and what makes it perfect.

So, in this post, I will give a brief overview of purpleness in prose.  Next time I’ll talk about real ways to bring your prose to life.

Purple prose, in case you aren’t quite clear on the meaning, is the habit of emblazoning the folia of your illustrious manuscript with ostentatious expressions of literary genius.  I.e., it means overwriting everything.  It means looking up every adjective, every verb, every noun in the thesaurus and pinpointing the one that sounds the most snobbishly pretentious and erudite, on the assumption that it will make your prose more “sophisticated.”  It doesn’t.  It makes it sound ridiculous.

Besides, you run the risk of using a word that has entirely the wrong meaning for what you’re trying to convey — but because it’s listed as a synonym for the word you should have used, you assumed it has the same connotation.  It may not.  And someone who actually knows the meaning of the word is just going to laugh at you for being a rube.  Sorry, but it’s the cold hard truth.

Imagine that I wanted to describe a character as chubby.  So I look up “chubby” in the thesaurus and go through and…hmm, brawny is a great word!  Yes, it’s listed as a synonym with chubby under the word, “fleshy.”  So, without doing a double-check on my chosen word, I plop it into my sentence: “The brawny little woman with small round eyes…”  Um.  No.  That would not be the image I’m trying to convey.

Besides the risk of sounding like an idiot, purple prose can actually defeat the purpose of good writing.  I read a story once where the author used that word I used earlier — cabochon — to describe tears.  Okay, is cabochon a good word in a sense to describe a teardrop?  Maybe, in this way: a cabochon is a gemstone that has been polished into a smooth shape, rather than being faceted.  Okay, a teardrop isn’t exactly faceted, so, yeah.  Technically, you could describe a teardrop as a cabochon.  Now, does that make it good fiction writing?

No.

Why not?  Well, when you’re writing about a deep emotion, like grief or mourning, over-describing can actually work against you.  It puts up barriers between the reader and the character.  It makes the reader pay attention to the prose, rather than what the prose is saying.  So, instead of feeling the character’s grief, the reader sits back and wonders, “What the heck is a cabochon?”  NOT the effect you want.

Purple prose is notorious for distancing the reader from the story.  Using a great vocabulary is one thing.  Using inappropriately grandiose vocabulary is something else entirely.

One final note.  A writer might think purple prose makes them sound smart, but readers are actually quite adept at detecting pseudo-intellectual fluff.  They can smell purple prose a mile away.  If they get even the slightest whiff of a sense that you’re using words you don’t really understand just to make your prose sound loftier, you will not see the end of their ridicule.

Writers ye be warned.


Paying Attention

Well.  I don’t think I need to point out that my last post was for the New Year.  *cough*  Things never do slow down, do they?  Sometimes, just when we hope we’re settling into a nice rhythm, life has a way of raising a maelstrom around us.  I had all manner of good resolutions about keeping current with this blog and everything else.  Hey, I even wanted to have a real website up and running in January.  I haven’t even had a moment to spare for working on that.

At any rate.  That’s not exactly what I wanted to write about today.  I actually wanted to write a little about what goes on inside a writer’s mind, because, somehow, I get the feeling that writers have a tendency to see the world a little bit…differently…than other people.

Artists see the harmony of shapes and colors, the contrast of lights and shadows, the perfect composition of a scene.  Musicians hear the melodies in everything, the poetry in speech and emotion, the movement of harmonies that speaks a language more subtle than words.  (To take a peculiar and crazy fun example of this, go watch a few of Pogo’s musical compositions. I recommend this one – Kadinchey – in particular. This amazing musician has the uncanny ability of hearing the song in everyday speech and sounds. Very cool.)

Anyway. So, artists have their way of seeing the world, and musicians have a way of hearing the world. And writers, well, writers have a way of writing the world. It’s sort of a constant internal process (and it can be kind of annoying when the inner writer doesn’t know when to shut her mouth).  Everything we see and experience, the wheels are turning in our heads — How would you describe this building?  What color is that, exactly?  What kind of physiological feeling am I experiencing, exactly?  

That last one is the one I — in a weird sort of way — enjoy a lot.  Maybe this is disturbing, or maybe it’s neat, I don’t know, but when I’m writing, I’ve actually gotten to the point where I can cause myself to feel most emotions my characters experience.  Of course, emotions come with physiological effects.  Fear makes your skin prickle and your heart race.  Sorrow, longing and regret give a twisting, tugging, sick ache in the heart, while the throat burns and the whole body stings.  Realization of something terrible makes the blood drain away, slow or all at once.

The really, really strong emotions are harder — overwhelming, paralyzing terror, for instance — but the others are relatively simple to conjure up.  Then I can sit there and analyze the physical sensation and say, hm, well, this isn’t exactly a chill but more prickly and creeping…how would you put that into words?  Or — Yes, when you’re scared, everyone knows your heart pounds or hammers.  But how else can you describe that sensation?  What new words can breathe life into old metaphors?

The world is full of things that need writing.  For example, when the sun has set, but before the blue dusk covers the sky, what color is that?  Like in this person’s amazing picture — that color there behind the clouds?  Is it purple, really?  Is it really blue?  To me it feels silver-blue.  When you hear the sound of a strange bird, like this, do you just say it’s a bird call?  Maybe a bird song?  But is that really what you hear?  I heard this the other morning, maybe at 5:30 or so?  There must have been thirty birds calling back and forth with this song.  I listened to it trail away into the distance, and knew it was a goose call.  Canada goose, to be precise.  But how do you describe it?  It’s not your typical goose honk.  There’s a haunting, clarion quality to it, something that evokes the call of horns and bells.

I guess all this is to say that, when you want to write, the first rule of writing visual, visceral narrative is to pay attention to the world around you.  Now, can dramatic descriptions be overdone, dripping with the amethyst grandeur of verbal luminosity?  I.e., can it become purple prose?  Yes.  Absolutely.  Writer Beware.  But sometimes the best way to imbue real depth, feeling, and vividness into your writing is to learn how to overdo it first, and then learn how to apply it tastefully later.

Think of how a pianist, just learning, will play all songs either sforzando or pianissimo.  All transitions will feel abrupt and artificial.  But slowly, they will learn to be subtle, applying just the right dynamic shifts to delight without drawing attention to its skillful use.  This is the goal for writers, too, to become in some way invisible, to let the writing speak as subtly as a breeze.  As you read, you feel, and see, and smell the world of the novel, and your stomach tightens with the hero’s fear, or turns to butterflies with the hint of new love, but you don’t really pay attention to how it happens.  If you go back over and read again with an eye to the actual writing style, maybe then you’ll be struck by the lovely turns of phrase or elegant metaphors.  But they’re not purple.  They don’t beat you over the head with how brilliant they are.  They’re just there, like the world.

Writers — pay attention to the world around you.  Write everything you see and hear and feel, at least in your mind.  Then you can better create new worlds where the reader can live…without even realizing they’ve been transported.