I once read a student manuscript that described mountains like dominos. They were all lined up, the author wrote, as if they would topple. A bad metaphor? Not necessarily. But it didn’t make sense in the manuscript, which was set in an ancient fantastical world where dominos do not exist.
Figurative language gives a lyrical quality to our work, but that’s not it’s only function. When done well, it elevates scenes, provides richness and texture to your narrative, contributes to setting and character development, and pushes your sentences to the next level—so much so that readers won’t want to put your book down.
Let’s study an excerpt from Bone Gap by Laura Ruby, who is a true master of figurative language. This scene happens at the beginning of the novel.
Finn kept walking, feet heavy in the heat. His temples throbbed, sandy eyelids scratching his corneas. When he spoke, his voice creaked like an old door the same way Charlie Valentine’s did as he yammered on about his grandad’s granddad’s horse farm, or how the railroad used to have a stop right in the middle of town, or the time he trapped an eight-foot-long beaver, as if the giants hadn’t been extinct since the last ice age. Like Old Charlie Valentine, Finn wished he could turn back the days as easily as a farmer turning a page in an almanac. He wished that the people of Bone Gap could forgive, and that he could forget.
He hiked up his backpack, worked on forgetting. Think of something else, anything else. Like his chores, which his brother would want finished by dinner. Like studying for the college entrance exams, exams he would need to ace if he had any hope of going away, getting away, though the thought of going made his stomach clench. Like the Rude boys, all five of them as mean as yellow jackets, boys who liked to hurt people who got in their way, and people who didn’t.
The same Rude boys who appeared on the road in front of him.
Finn froze like a monument to cowards everywhere. Was it them? Was he sure? Of course he was. Finn could always tell, even from this far away. All five of them were short and bow-legged, making them look like a chorus of wishbones. The Rude boys walked as if they were permanently saddle sore.
Based on this excerpt alone, where do you think the book is set? A bustling big city or somewhere more rural? Heavily populated or a small town? What kind of kid is Finn? How do you know?
Notice what the metaphors have in common. Creaked like an old door and a farmer turning pages in an almanac immediately make us think of time in stasis—a sense that things here have been the same since Charlie Valentine’s grandad’s granddad’s horse farm.
The Rude boys are as mean as yellow jackets and look like a chorus of wishbones …. permanently saddle sore. What kind of world are you imagining from this? What imagery does this conjure for you, and how does that affect how you engage with the text?
Let’s tweak the metaphors and think of how that changes things.
When he spoke, his voice creaked like loose sails on a ship.
When he spoke, his voice creaked like stairs in a weathered castle.
When he spoke, his voice creaked like witch’s laughter.
Do you notice how the metaphors influence what readers understand of the setting?
What if Ruby described the Rude boys as “built like skyscrapers,” “strong as mountains,” or “as mean as injured dragons”? How does that change things?
What function does figurative language serve in your own work? How does it influence world building and/or characterization? How often do you use figurative language? Do you lean on it too much? Not enough? Not all writers use an abundance of figurative language, but when it is used, it should be considered carefully and confidently. It’s not a mechanism to show off clever writing chops—it’s a way to make your stories more vivid, engaging, and cinematic.
And your choice of figurative language reveals so much about character, as well as setting. I could talk about Bone Gap for ages. I love this book. It’s a masterpiece.
+1 on all that, Nicole.