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#writing similie
skylerchasesbooks · 1 year
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What Is a Simile?
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Unlike metaphors, similes create a comparison using like and as. Perhaps you’ll recognize this famous example of simile from Forrest Gump: “Life is like a box of chocolates.”
In this case, the reader is more explicitly aware of the direct comparison that’s being made versus a metaphor or analogy. (Remember, a simile is a type of metaphor.) When it comes to simile use in writing, a good rule of thumb is to approach with caution and use similes sparingly.
Similes use the words like or as to compare things—“Life is like a box of chocolates.”
In contrast, metaphors directly state a comparison—“Love is a battlefield.”
They're all important when writing though. Making unconventional comparisons at times using similes and metaphors can add to your writing and make it much more layered and sophesticated. Eg:
His words wrapped themselves around me like Thorny vines of a spiteful plant, no more like the warm embrace of the sun on your skin.
Hope that was somewhat useful and In easy terms! Like, share and follow!
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mazzartyarts · 1 year
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*through gritted teeth* This is a mess but it’s okay because I was fine with failing.
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em-dash-press · 1 year
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How to Write Metaphors
Making your story stand out to readers requires vivid descriptions. You have to weave senses and emotions into scenes, which might mean using a few well-placed metaphors. 
Here are a few tips to help you understand why metaphors exist, their purposes, and how to write them more effectively
What Is a Metaphor?
A metaphor is a figure of speech that makes one idea more clear by associating or explaining it with other object or idea.
When someone does something sweet or thoughtful, their friend might say, “Aren’t you a peach!” They’re not saying that person is a literal peach. They’re complimenting their kindness by comparing it to a super sweet fruit. It creates a more vivid picture and can be more flattering than saying, “That was so nice of you.”
Metaphors also lend a more conversational tone. You wouldn’t find metaphors in professional documentation because it’s supposed to be authoritative and serious. Metaphors make a conversation less serious by making lighthearted or silly comparisons.
How to Write Metaphors
Anyone can write or create metaphors by keeping these three tips in mind.
1. For Visual Help: The Extended Metaphor
Extended metaphors last longer than a single sentence or phrase. They often appear when someone is trying to make their anxiety clear to someone else or raise the tension in a story.
Example: “You will never do that again,” she roared, swiping at him until there was enough space for her to leap on her prey. The woman isn’t literally a predator animal like a panther or bear, but the metaphor makes her anger seem stronger or more powerful by rooting it in an animalistic sense of survival.
2. For Humor: The Mixed Metaphor
You can also write a mixed metaphor to lighten a situation or wield your sense of humor in a story. They take readers by surprise, which might be exactly what a scene calls for.
Example: “This isn’t going to be easy,” Anthony said. “You know what they say,” Irvin replied, “when the rubber meets the road, we have to bite a bullet.” Anthony laughed. “That’s literally not what anyone says.” “Whatever—you know what I mean.”
3. For Practice: The Dead Metaphor
Writers consider any overused metaphor a dead metaphor. The idea is to avoid using them because creating something new is more interesting. It’s also a sign that you’re a more skilled writer.
Examples: When the ghost appeared, Amy’s face turned snow white. “Stop repeating yourself,” he said. “You’re a broken record.” Xander would rather kick the bucket than take Friday’s exams.
Why Are Metaphors Important?
Why use metaphors at all? I’d guess you’re already unknowingly putting them in your stories, but let’s talk about a few reasons why many writers use them on purpose.
Metaphors Engage the Senses
If someone says talking with their boss is like voluntarily bashing their head into a wall, you can feel the pain in your head and the groaning urger to do anything other than that. It’s more descriptive than saying someone hates talking to their boss, so it’s more engaging.
Remember, metaphors aren’t the only way to write with your primary senses. You shouldn’t rely on metaphors to do all of your descriptions. However, they’re helpful when you want to switch up your narrative style occasionally.
Metaphors Replace Similies
It’s easy to confuse similies and metaphors, but they’re two very different narrative tools that can make your stories better. Describing things in numerous ways demonstrates your expert control of your craft.
Similies compare two things using “like” or “as.” Metaphors claim something as another thing without those words.
Examples: Simile: When I kissed her, her heart beat as loud as a drum. Metaphor: When I kissed her, the drumbeat of her heart filled my ears. Simile: The kids act like crazed animals once family game night gets competitive. Metaphor: Our house turns into a zoo when family game night gets competitive. Simile: His presence in my life is like a light in the darkness. Metaphor: He’s a light in the dark.
Practice Using Metaphors
Anyone can write using metaphors and make their stories more engaging or descriptive. Sometimes you might also write a metaphor that your readers don’t understand.
That’s okay. It happens all the time.
The point is for your metaphors to make sense to you and serve a descriptive purpose in a sentence or scene. Avoid the overused ones and you’ll become an expert in no time.
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bonheur-cafe · 4 months
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Hi 💗 song number 24 for the Spotify drabble prompt thing
Hello D! Thank you so much 💜 Number 24 is HOT by SEVENTEEN. I wrote this all last night and it ended up being longer than I expected because I had no idea where to stop lmao Regardless I hope you enjoy!
The late afternoon sun is still hot, wet heat gathering on TK's skin and seemingly dripping down the side of his head and into his mouth. TK rips his suffocating motorcyle helmet off of his head, shaking his sweat slick hair out of his eyes before wiping off the wetness that gathers above his brow with the back of his hands. He kicks the stand of his slick red Harley with the heel of his black leather boot, making a show of sitting back down on the seat, arching his back just enough so that his short black shirt rides up his back as he reaches over to set his helmet down on the handlebars right in the eye line of a figure he knows is standing under the shade of the barn beside him.
"You're late," his voice calls out— cocky, strong and demanding. It's pitched so low it reverberates through the red clay dirt and up TK's toes before it pools and settles in his lower stomach.
TK smirks, swinging a leg off his bike as he pulls the key from the ignition. He twirls the key tauntingly around his finger as he swaggers his way over, tugging at the ends of his leather jacket in a move that is making the man in front of him raise a challenging eyebrow at him, crossing his arms just a bit tighter over his broad chest.
It's so hot out here in the desert, along the highway in the middle of nowhere, only sand and cacti for miles. The heat is almost tangible, the humidity catching on TK's eyelashes and making it feel like he's wading through water. As his eyes scan the vast nothingness around him, the world seems to vibrate alongside the oasis he can barely make out in the distance. A promise of reprieve in a place so barren. Despite the heat that seems to be swallowing him whole, nothing compares to the lick of flames against his skin as he takes in the man in front of him for the first time against golden backdrop of the setting sun.
The man in question curls his lip into a smile that TK is all to familiar with. Not sinister, but also not kind; A promise of destruction.
There is a sliver of desire in the corner of his mouth and in the twinkle of his eye as he pulls the white stetson from his head and hangs it on the fence post he's leaning on, pushing off of it to make his way out of the shadows and towards TK who is still bathed in sunlight despite being dressed like the night sky. TK swears he can see smoke billow out from the spurs on his boots the closer he steps to him.
"Carlos," TK murmurs, trying to express the lust coursing through his veins line a steady rolling boil. However, Carlos' name comes out of his mouth like a whine; the sound of a tea kettle ready to boil over.
Carlos says nothing, doesn't need to as his hooded eyes follow the single bead of sweat that runs down TK's temple to the column on his throat, gathering in his exposed collarbones underneath his ridiculous leather jacket like he wants to dip his tongue there to taste it. Then, his gaze lingers just briefly on TK's icy green eyes that burn hot with desire before landing on his red lips. TK bites them between his teeth like an invitation that Carlos gladly takes.
Carlos tastes like musk and black pepper and an underlying sweetness that only spurs his hunger. He runs his hands downs the sides of Carlos' tight white shirt with reverence as he licks into his mouth, tongue curling behind his teeth to taste more. He takes care to feel how Carlos' abs clench under his touch before he hooks his fingers into his belt loops, feeling the warm brown leather along the backs of his fingers like reins. He yanks him abruptly, flush against him, like urging a horse to stop even as he wants anything but.
He can feel Carlos' hardness against his own through his jeans as they both let out a gasp, parting just slightly like they've been burned. Carlos digs his fingers into the back of is neck, keeping his close so that their foreheads are touching and TK cannot ignore the inferno that is engulfing them from the inside out any longer.
"Care to take me out of the heat?" TK pants, leaning down to whisper into Carlos' ear. He feels Carlos smirk against his cheek, stubble scraping against his own like striking a match.
"Oh baby," he purrs, his voice curling behind his ear like smoke and making TK shiver. "It'll only get hotter once we make it inside."
Writers Unwrapped Drabbles
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oaxleaf · 1 year
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coming to the realization that i write my analysis posts the same way i write school assignments. don’t think this is what i was meant to use it for, but. well.
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enevera · 2 years
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9 and 24 <33
9. what are you struggling with the most in finishing your current wip(s)? 
uhh writing is pretty tiring for me so i dont tend to want to do it unless im very very motivated or i have a ton of free time. and i rarely am very motivated and in possession of all that much free time sjdhfb
24. do you have a writer you look up to in terms of writing routines/style? 
uhhhhhh... hm idk. i think ursula k le guin's schedule sounds very nice tho ig. i dont think i look up to anyone's style tho rlly; i just poke a vein and let the words go, it's a lot like bloodletting ahbjsdf
ask game!!
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selkies-world · 2 years
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I decided to publish a chapter from the 1st draft of my 2nd book so click here to be one of the first people to read it!!!
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Me while reading: FUCK yeah i love reading i love books i love information i love learning historical context i love hearing someone elses voice inside my head i LOVE reading. I could read forever
My brain when not reading: fuck you. Im not reading a fucking book. Fuck your life forever bitch. Stare at your bookshelf for 45 minutes
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floralprintshirts · 3 months
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I have a very pretty writing style :3
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keyboard-squared · 6 months
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These Sites Will Pay You to Write Your Own Fiction—But There's a Catch
Ever wanted to earn money when people read your stories? There is a way—but it's not foolproof.
Fiction writers are always in need of money, right? If you’re more into writing short stories and flash fiction, not quite ready to write a book to self-publish yet, or just looking for an easy way to get some extra cash doing what you’re best at, you’ve probably wondered if there’s any way to get paid for your stories. No publishing, no ghostwriting, no signing a contract, just people reading…
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skylerchasesbooks · 1 year
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What’s the Difference Between Metaphor, Simile, and Analogy?
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Metaphors, similes, and analogies are three literary devices used in speech and writing to make comparisons. Each is used in a different way.
Identifying the three can get a little tricky sometimes: for example,
when it comes to simile vs. metaphor, a simile is actually a subcategory of metaphor, which means all similes are metaphors, but not all metaphors are similes.
While these figures of speech are used to compare different things, here are some clear rules to help you distinguish between metaphor, simile, and analogy:
°•°
1. A simile is saying something is like something else.
2. A metaphor is often poetically saying something is something else.
3. An analogy is saying something is like something else to make some sort of an explanatory point.
4. You can use metaphors and similes when creating an analogy.
5. A simile is a type of metaphor. All similes are metaphors, but not all metaphors are similes.
Hope this was helpful! You can send in asks or requests for content, I'd be glad to respond! Like, share and follow for more! :)
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ceylonsilvergirl · 8 months
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3 chapters into The City We Became by N. K. Jemison. It is so frickin’ good!! Initial impressions:
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userleetaeyong · 1 year
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it is 2023 nobody in fanfiction should swiping anything on, accentuating curves, or crashing lips. get a thesaurus.
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Mi trovo in conflitto con me stessa. Una relazione casual forse si rivela non essere giusta per me. Vediamo un po':
Attenzioni. In una relazione normale, le riceverei dal partner, ma in questo caso mi contatterebbe solo se vuole fottermi.
Ora, nel mio passato c'è stata solo una relazione effettiva. E in questa ho ricevuto spesso un rigido rifiuto. Questo, e la fame che provo per essere ammirata e apprezzata mi ha spinto talvolta a ricercare adorazione su un account frivolo di tumblr, dove il mio corpo, malcelato in pizzo e avvolto in tessuti impalpabili, era servito sotto luci morbide per uomini sfacciati e con pochi scrupoli. Questi scambi erano insoddisfacenti. Trovavo una certa gioia nel girare fra le dita uomini adulti e disperati per frammenti minuscoli di pelle vergine. Ma mi sentivo in colpa, perché nonostante il suo rifiuto, sapevo che il mio ragazzo del tempo aveva buone intenzioni. Ridurmi a un oggetto fonte di desideri impuri non era nelle sue intenzioni di certo, ma il risultato fu sempre la mia vergogna di ragazza cresciuta cattolica cresciuta per dire no e stop alla belva che sarebbe l'uomo, e mi sentivo una troia. Una troia, perché eccitavo il mio ragazzo e perché eccitata io stessa volevo continuare a baciarlo e stringerlo.
Il problema di adesso è che non c'è la colpa, ma c'è l'insoddisfazione. Il mio ego mi lascia sconcertata all'idea che un ragazzo abbia potuto avere di me la mia pelle nuda mai mostrata prima, il mio seno mai morso prima, la mia bocca vergine mai usata prima e la mia stessa fottuta verginità, e non rimanere abbindolato. Dov'è la brama di avermi di nuovo? Dov'è la sete il gusto il desiderio di avermi fra le braccia, le gambe tremanti e i capelli tirati indietro da una coda? So di essere bella, so della mia pelle morbida, del mio monte di venere spianato, delle mie labbra bagnate. Lo so perché ho file di bocche assetate che cantano, pregano io li scelga. Ero solo buona per la sua prima volta? La mia vanità non mi permette di accettarlo. Cazzo no, non c'è modo. Ha avuto una prima, bellissima ragazza in ginocchio, a novanta e sopra di lui. E mi stai dicendo che è tutto ciò che desiderava?
Posso promettere che, se mi avesse scritto per un altro round quel pomeriggio stesso avrei detto di sì. Ho la mente ancora in subbuglio per i sogni erotici che ha fatto nascere.
E lui è scomparso. Mi guarda le storie di instagram nel stesso modo passivo di tutti i ragazzi che mi bramano da mesi ma non possono avere perché non hanno le palle per chiedermi di uscire.
Casual. L'ho dovuto cercare su google, che cazzo significa casual? A quanto pare sarei una callgirl senza paga. La mia dignità-o il mio ego- non mi permette di scrivergli per primo, anche se potrei, anche se vorrei. Non voglio essere la puttana che non può farne a meno. Perché la verginità su un uomo sta bene solo se non è la sua.
E che succede se si fa una fidanzata? Mi avviserebbe? "Hey Maria, non sono più libero per fotterti, mi sono trovato una che mi ha fatto capire che se c'è l'amore si trova il tempo. Non contattarmi più". Come mi sentirei allora? Umiliata? Perché non ho potuto rifiutarlo? O delusa? Perché non si è innamorato di me?
Non vorrei nemmeno si innamorasse di me. Onestamente. Potrei vantarmi del fatto che è figo, alto e blablabla, ma non abbiamo in comune che la promessa di fottere di nuovo prima o poi. Non ce lo vedo che mi abbraccia senza andare per le tette o il culo, che balliamo in cucina, che abbiamo una canzone. Non ce lo vedo a sorridere a una mia foto perché "sono sua". E non vedo me stessa fare lo stesso per lui.
Vorrei essere sua amica, però. Alle superiori (ebbene si, lo conoscevo da anni prima di dargliela alla seconda uscita), volevo essere sua amica disperatamente. Era simpatico e gentile e buono, e avevamo battute stupide fra di noi e volevo solo poter essere sua amica. (Bugia, volevo starci insieme in un modo o nell'altro per tipo 3 anni)
A quel punto sarei un'amica con benefici. Ma almeno potrei mandargli meme idioti e fare battute e scherzare, invece di essere solo a due messaggi di lontananza dalla sua prossima scopata.
Il silenzio. Odio il silenzio, mi sembra di essere ignorata. Anche se non c'è bisogno di scriversi se non per il sesso, mi fa sentire vuota, sostituibile. Dopo il secondo round, gli ho chiesto se bastava il silenzio, se erano in conto qualche foto in pizzi e tessuti trasparenti, e mi ha detto di no. È più per il materiale, la carne.
Niente sexting. Niente?
Mi stai dicendo che io, tumblr user che scrive soft porn per divertimento, non devo -non posso- scriverti e lamentarmi di quanto vorrei avessi il tempo per sbattermi sulla tua scrivania? Io? Che ho fatto un anno a fare sexting, solo sexting, con un ragazzo solo per la gioia del desiderio?
Comfort. Mi sento a mio agio a stare nuda in casa sua, in camera sua, di fronte a lui. A girare per il suo appartamento e ridacchiare quando mi da una pacca sul culo. Non mi sento giudicata. Non mi ha mai giudicata.
Sembra una cazzata. "Cosa vuoi che ti dica?" Il punto è che commenti sul mio corpo ne ho sentiti abbastanza. Mi è stato detto che le mie mani fanno impressione, le mie tette hanno troppo spazio fra l'una e l'altra, che sono piccole, che i miei peli (su braccia, occasionalmente ventre e a sud del ventre) per quanto in ordine sono disgustosi. Ma lui. Lui mi ha slacciato il reggiseno e baciato i capezzoli, poi è sceso al ventre, lasciando un tracciato bagnato, fino al mio punto piu vulnerabile. Con il mio permesso mi ha denudata completamente e non ha battuto ciglio, mi ha baciata leccata toccata con passione. E mi sono sciolta fra le sue braccia. A pensarci vorrei piangere. Temevo mi guardasse e mi dicesse qualcosa di orribile. Invece persino dopo, quando ho fatto una battuta definendomi piatta mi ha guardato confuso e mi ha detto "cosa dici? Hai almeno una seconda abbondante".
In quel momento l'avrei fottuto di nuovo. Solo per quello.
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sar-soor · 4 months
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When I was a kid in school and we learned about poetry in English class, I hate to admit that I complained that I just didn't get it and that it just didn't move me.
I was in high school (living in Falasteen as a US citizen without a hawiyya) the first time I ever really sat down to read Mahmoud Darwish's work and suddenly I understood. The first line of poetry that ever moved me to tears (as in, I began sobbing uncontrollably) was from a poem in Unfortunately, It Was Paradise. One line, and it was over for me.
Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?
As soon as I read it, everything clicked. All those years of trying and failing to see the merit in metaphors and similies and cut up line structures that I couldn't make any sense of were gone. I'd never connected to anything I read so viscerally. It was like someone stuck me in the chest with a metal rod and shocked me into feeling.
I'd never felt so seen or understood, especially as someone who (and I know most if not all diaspora Palestinians can relate to this) spent my entire life being told that Falasteen did not belong to my people, that my people never existed, that my identity was a farce, that my connection to Falasteen meant nothing because, in the eyes of the West and Zionists and world maps and Google searches, Palestine did not exist. I was told by teachers who lived on illegal settlements in the West Bank that the situation was "complex." I was told by teachers in the US growing up that I should be grateful for the fact that my family was able to come to this country when they did, that I was an American, that I should be proud of it. I was told by everyone (excluding fellow Palestinians, of course), constantly, that my big feelings about the land my grandparents had stolen from them and the home that I should have grown up being turned into a bar and the injustices that I witnessed with my own two eyes in both '48 and the West Bank meant nothing, that I should get over it, that the Nakba was done and over with and nothing could ever be done for the Palestinian people. I was told, again and again, in a million different ways, to let go of Falasteen, because the rest of the world had.
Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?
Everything I'd ever been told, all the times I'd had my identity denied, or held against me, all of it boiled down to that line. My body reacted to seeing those words so immediately because they'd finally given voice to the feelings I'd been experiencing my entire life. I can't describe what reading those words does to me even now. I cannot describe what it means to know that someone in the world once felt the same way I do now, that this massive awful experience connects us, that the love we have for our home is felt just the same.
Mahmoud Darwish was a marvel and a master of his craft, and he was one of the most important and prolific Palestinian poets and activists of his time (and ever, in my opinion) for good reason. I owe my ability to connect with writing to him. I owe my ability to connect with my home, with the emotions and experiences I've had my entire life, to him.
Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?
Falasteen lives within every Falasteeni person both inside and outside of the land. I will never be free of it, nor would I ever want to be.
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schmope-is-dead · 2 years
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i think ppl tend to forget like. the reason shakespeare is so good is bc he wrote things that spoke on the idea of being human. literally anyone can write a "shakespearean quote" bc it's supposed to be the feeling of being human you dumbasses
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