Writing Metaphors

At the beginning of every semester that I taught, I would have my students do an exercise where they came up with a metaphor for writing. I always did the activity with them, and came up with new metaphors every time, usually reflecting the current state of my masters thesis. I liked them, and want to keep them, so here they are:

1. Sep. 5, 2008

Writing is like jumping into a pool of water belly first and then realizing you can't swim. As you sink to the bottom, overwhelmed with your own stupidity for thinking this was a good idea, you suddenly remember a stroke you learned from your swimming lessons and the community rec center when you were six years old and your mother had to force you to jump in the pool because you were worried you wouldn't make any friends. You recall these friends and the swimming you did together and begin to struggle upwards, finally reaching the surface, and then discover what it is like to breathe, as if for the first time.

2. I don't have a date, but it was probably Jan. 5, 2009

For me, writing is like standing in stagnant, warm water--mud between my toes. I want to move, want to write, but the water is too warm, the mud too squishy, and I stand still, not writing, not moving. I can hear a tidal wave coming, can feel the breeze as the water picks up speed, but for now, I am stuck, know that before the water reaches me, I will begin to run.

3. The next day, (after I began my thesis)

To me, writing is like a frightening dog you promised to watch. You try to run away from it, but you've sworn to take care of it--feed it, play with it, and despite your terror, your duty is clear. So slowly, hesitatingly, you step up to the dog, reach out your finger--and he licks you, tackles you--and you find it is not as hard to do your duty as you had feared it would be.

4. Today

Writing is like a great big elephant that someone gave you. You are pretty sure it would come in handy, could be eminently serviceable and useful, if only you could figure out what to do with it. You and the elephant stare at each other, eyes locked. Then you look away and the elephant meanders off, presumably to find someone who actually knows how to take care of it.

I'm not sure what this metaphor reflects.

The end.

Reconciliation

This post is not a reconciliation with Frances Burney, who decided that having her heroine nearly die at the end worked so well in Cecilia, that she should do it in Camilla. It did not work well either time--female deathbed scenes are like our modern-day car/aiport chases in the rain.

Instead, this post is about my senior dinner dance, when I went to Barnes and Noble with a group in order to escape the dancing. In an attempt to impress the company, I came up with a metaphor--that books are like certain pieces of underwear, sports bras for example: you probably might share them with family members or close friends, but you wouldn't borrow a sports bra if you didn't know where it had been. Similarly, you wouldn't borrow a book from a library if you could buy it new. It was a question of hygiene, really.

I was so taken with my own clever thought at the time that I seldom returned to a public library since then. Yesterday, Sam and I went to the Durham County Public library with some friends.

I walked in the door, looked around me, and was immediately struck with the force of my own betrayal.

How could I have forgotten?

How could I have forgotten the first thing I did every summer was go the library, stack up books as high as I could carry, and read them until my mom suggested I ought to attempt to do something productive with my summer?

How could I have forgotten the bright colors in the children's section, the out of the way corners perfect for curling up in in?

How could I have forgotten that books are often meant to be displayed with their plastic protected covers facing outward because in some cases you actually can judge a book by its cover--or by the fact that a librarian recommended it?

And how could I have forgotten that sometimes books really are more enjoyable when they have a history, when the pages are soft with use?

Here I was, thinking about doing a library science degree. And I honestly believed before yesterday that it was because I liked my books to be organized.

Yesterday, the public library and I were reunited. May we never again be so long apart.

To Frances Burney

Dear Miss Burney:

I stayed with you when Evelina Anville ran into Lord Orville while accompanied by some prostitutes at Vauxhalle gardens--that was pretty funny, after all. I even held on when Cecilia and Mortimer Delville kept missing each other in the streets of London until Cecilia was feverish and ALMOST DIED (in part I enjoyed it because that was probably one of the first times a dog was used in a novel to bring the couple together--but really, the name change/secret marriage plot line was pretty weak). But if you think that I am going to make it through 900 pages of angst about Camilla and Edgar when I know and you know and pretty much everyone in the entire books knows that they are in love--you are probably right--but I won't be happy about it.

What is it about sensibility that is so problematic for you, eh Fanny? Frances? Whatever. Couples, believe it or not, actually get together so much faster if they acknowledge that they like each other. All that keeps your couples apart is the fact that women in your novels are forbidden from showing that they care about anyone. I don't want to go all Marianne Dashwood on you, but that is just stupid.

I loved Evelina, I enjoyed Cecilia, but I am just suffering through Camilla. Let's face it--there were some big improvements in your genre after you. First of all, there were REAL impediments to matrimony that kept couples apart--like a wife in the attic, for example. Second of all, women could show emotion, but they didn't fall to pieces all the time. And most importantly--men are not either gods or cads. Miss Burney, you are like a male novelist in reverse, only instead of angels or *****, there are no gradations of men in between the prince charmings and the fops.

Anyway, props for writing Evelina and everything. And also, props for the great influence on Jane Austen. Giving her the title for Pride and Prejudice, if nothing else, should win our esteem. Also, a few choice phrases from you, I have seen before in other places. My favorite is "a word, a look" which Austen used in Persuasion. See also "She was firm where she knew herself to be right" which I believe is Pride and Prejudice.

Thank you for your time.

Yet all Young Ladies are Accomplished

This morning, while attempting to do anything but finals-appropriate activities, I rebegan a book by Robin McKinley. I used to believe that if I wrote anything for young adults, it would be exactly like something she wrote. I also thought that I was exactly like her heroines: I couldn't sew, I couldn't dance, my embroidery was abysmal, and I lacked seemingly all necessary feminine wiles. Somehow all her heroines got men in the end--most turned out beautiful as well.

I never doubted that I would turn out as well, that my fairy tale would come, but today I realized with surprise as I read that I had much less in common with her heroines than I had supposed. If a magical closet handed me a dress covered in jewels, I would at least try it on for size. Clumsy or not, swirling and twirling--and performing above all, appeals to me. I have sewed some awful things in my day, but I can sew (almost) in a straight line. In short, I enjoy crafts which many heroines seem to shun. I say this not to tout my own abilities but because it was a surprising realization that I no longer share my heroines' interests.

Perhaps, I muse, intellectual women writers who create female characters have a sense of apprehension about endorsing typically feminine activities, since who wants to be Better Homes and Garderns circa 1958? Now, I think, if I write something for young adults, I might try to have a heroine who is not a tomboy--since I think one can be an imperfect, dynamic, and interesting character (if I may flatter myself), and still enjoy embrodering pincushions on occasion.

A farewell to any hope of productive uses of time

Dear Time:

I tried. It's not you; it's me. I made a real effort to make most of time (though no longer a virgin take that Robert Herrick)--gathering rosebuds while I may--had I but world enough and time--carpe the diem, and all that, but I just don't see this "use time wisely thing" working out. I have started a blog. Pretty soon I will be eating dinner in my underwear, blogging away. Perhaps I should set a time limit, for at my back I always hear--an incoherent paragraph with far too many allusions to 16thish centuryish poets appear. I hope, dear time, to not waste you one day, but to devour every minute. Perhaps, indeed, this blog will help me do it.

Sincerely ABE

Well, I am still figuring out this blogging thing. One day I am sure I will be proficient, even adept, if I just waste enough time on this.

For all my lamenting and breaking up with Time, I am glad to have joined the blogging world--if only for my own benefit, and that of my bfb ABE.