by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell
Back in the day (and for you kids, when an author of my vintage uses “back in the day” that’s a bit further than when The Big Bang Theory was a hit) there was a TV commercial for Thomas’ English Muffins. A narrator extolled the benefits of said breadstuff, then a smiling kid held one up and said, “And lots of nooks and crannies to hold the melted butter!”
I salute the ad man who came up with this line, because back in that same day the federal gummint guidelines had butter on its dietary hit list. Bosh, thought the ad man. That smooth, warm taste of liquified gold coating the taste buds is the most enjoyable part of this culinary treat.
Which is how I think about style in fiction. When the prose has nooks and crannies of “unobtrusive poetry” (as the great John D. MacDonald put it) my reading pleasure buds pop with delight and I am likely to search out more offerings from that writer.
Which brings me to the subject of metaphors and similes. They are the melted butter of prose.
For example, Raymond Chandler would have been just another detective fiction scribbler were it not for the magic of his style. Here are a few of my favorites:
It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. (Farewell, My Lovely)
I lit a cigarette. It tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief. (Farewell, My Lovely)
She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre curtain. (The Big Sleep)
Here are some from other authors:
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances. (Shakespeare, As You Like It)
“Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh?” (Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451)
She faced the children’s mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like a rabbit’s ears. (Flannery O’Connor, “A Good Man is Hard to Find”)
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make? (Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon)
I shall now lay down the rule (yes, I said it) for metaphors and similes: they must be in the words that the viewpoint character would actually say or think. If they are not, it is no longer unobtrusive. It’ll stick out like a garlic breath burp at a dinner party. (Hey, not bad.)
There is only one exception to this rule, and that is if the voice of the author is the selling point, the raison d’etre of the book’s allure. Old-school Omniscient POV (e.g., Dickens) had it. So did the post-realist novels of the 60s and 70s (e.g., Vonnegut, Pynchon). Almost always it is found in comic novels, e.g., Douglas Adams, and most abundantly in the writing of the late Tom Robbins. You read his books for the flights of literary fancy, the voice of mushroom-laced, hippie-dipped, Zen-flavored farce:
Every toilet bowl gurgled like an Italian tenor with a mouthful of Lavoris, and the refrigerators made noises at night like buffalo grazing. (Jitterbug Perfume)
Like a neon fox tongue lapping up the powdered bones of space chickens, the Rising Sun licked away at the light snow that had fallen during the night. (Skinny Legs and All)
It was as if the dishwater, as gray and oily as a mobster’s haircut, washed away his arrogant confusion. (Skinny Legs and All)
So how can you find your own melted butter? Wide reading of authors who do this well is, of course, a given. In addition, I offer a couple of writing exercises to expand your style muscle. Note, this means you do the heavy lifting in your own brain; it can’t be handed to you by a machine. It’s fun, costs nothing, and will improve all of your writing.
People Pegging
Go to a public place—a park, a coffeehouse, a mall—and people watch. Home in on someone for a few seconds, then write in your notebook the following:
- He walks like a __________
- If he were an animal, he’d be a ____________
- His mood is the color of a ___________
Detail Digging
Wherever you are, pick a random item within your sight—pen, cough drop, lip balm, glasses, book, cup. Then:
- Write five things this item reminds you of.
- How would an advanced-race alien describe this item?
- Imagine this item appearing in your novel. From your Lead character’s POV, write three metaphors—one based on sight, one on touch, and one on smell.
Spend just an hour doing one or both of these exercises and you will actually feel your style improving.
Which is so worth it. Raymond Chandler would have told you that. This observation was found in one of his notebooks after his death:
“Without magic, there is no art. Without art, there is no idealism. Without idealism, there is no integrity. Without integrity, there is nothing but production.”
Don’t just produce. Monkeys can do that. AI is doing it now. Who cares?
Bring a little magic to your prose.
Write like melted butter.
Do you think about style when you write and/or edit? Do you search out fresh metaphors and similes? Do you love it when a writer is able to pull off “unobtrusive poetry”?
I love a good epigraph. That’s the quotation some authors put on a standalone page right before the novel begins. It is not to be confused with an epigram, which is a pithy and witty statement. However, if placed at the front of a book, an epigram becomes an epigraph, thus epitomizing epiphenomena (secondary effects).