I want to write in metaphors. But I don’t think I know how. Yes, I know what a metaphor is – a comparison of two unlike things without using the word “like” or “as”:
At 16, Vanessa was a delicate hanky blowing in the wind, hoping to land on a park bench next to a successful young businessman who would proudly place her in his lapel pocket for all to see. Unfortunately, she landed dirty and ragged at the feet of an arrogant know-it-all who used her to blow his nose.
More than just a one-time example, I want to write an entire story metaphorically.
Women seem to struggle most with two things: choosing unsavory men who don’t treat them as they should and food. We turn to chocolate, donuts, ice cream to comfort our hurts and fill our souls. But stories about women who love men who don’t deserve them most likely outnumber, I don’t know, a lot of things. And does anybody really want a Pitch Perfect spinoff about how and why Patricia became Fat Amy.
So what if the heroine of our story was a female bull rider and the Chris Brown – or chocolate brownies if we’re going with the second leading nemesis – in her life was a bull.
It might go something like this:
Almost 20 years ago Jenna climbed onto the saddle of a bull, though she didn’t realize it at the time. The bovine she latched onto had been thoughtful and gentle, like the storybook Ferdinand, but over the years it became apparent that the snarling and stampeding famous on the streets of Pamplona was more his nature. Yet, she hung on – whether out of weakness or strength was debatable.
I know nothing beyond 8 seconds of bull riding, but I am capable of research. Yet, would you read a novel about bull riding? I wouldn’t. And could I make the true intent of the story clear?
I don’t know.
But I want to.