Tag Archives: metaphor monday

Metaphor Monday: The Garden


Metaphor Monday is a new thing we’re trying out around here. Every week, I’ll pick a thing and compare it to another thing. Probably writing, since that’s what this blog is about, but who knows? Metaphors are awesome. Alliteration, doubly so. Got a suggestion for next week’s metaphor? Drop it in the comments.

I was running through the neighborhood a few days ago, and I noticed something I don’t usually pay that much attention to: gardens.

We have a family down the street from us who moved in about a year ago, and one of the first things they did was till up a corner of their side yard to make room for a cozy little garden. My wife and I kind of sniggered at that: we (well, she) tried to cultivate a tiny garden many years back and it went wrong right away. The Georgia summer is pretty ruthless, and when you’re not organized enough to remember to water it or fertilize it or, you know, any of the things that make gardens work, it doesn’t take long for the weeds and the kudzu to reclaim your work.

But this garden is working. It isn’t the prettiest thing — the creeping grass and rampant weeds threaten it on every side, and it leans sort of precariously on the side of a hill leading down toward the street — but there are definitely things growing in it that look edible. A few scrawny tomatoes dangling on the vine. One or two leafy heads of something poking up through the dirt. And I realized that our garden didn’t fail because there was something wrong with the climate, or with our yard; the problem was with us.

A garden takes devotion. You can’t just work at it a couple of days a week, or when the weather is nice, or when you get a free afternoon. You have to make the time for it every day. Watering. Weeding. Fertilizing. Checking pH levels or something, I don’t know. You have to return to it every day like a monk to his prayers, even when it seems like nothing is happening (because so much of the growth happens out of sight, before you can see it).

A garden takes time. You don’t plant seeds on Monday and feast on Friday. It takes a season, or perhaps a couple, before you can hope to see the fruits of your labor. That means patience; knowing that the work you’re doing means something, even when it feels useless. It means sacrificing hours and hours of time you could spend doing other things (OMG OMG THE NEW GAME OF THRONES IS OUT DID YOU SEE ED SHEERAN HOLY CRAP just kidding I don’t watch Game of Thrones who has that kind of time) to plunge your hands into the earth.

A garden takes defending. Nature doesn’t give a handul of hot fargos that you’re trying to Do A Thing, to get in touch with your primordial roots and grow your own food off the land. Nature has insects and vermin to feed and green things to grow, and it’s a hell of a lot easier to let some kudzu and clover take over the space you’re using for a garden than to cultivate a couple of tomatoes. Your garden will be beset on all sides by weeds and vines and all sorts of things that will kill it if left to their own devices, and there’s no easy solution. Pesticides? Those come out in the food you were hoping to eat. Weed-killer? Surprise, it’s just as happy to eat your cauliflower. The only way to keep your garden safe is to pull them out by hand — and that takes that time we were talking about up there.

And that’s writing, innit? Or fill in That Thing You Want To Do, and it’s that thing, too. You can’t just do it when it feels good, you have to return to it every day, without fail, even when it’s hard, uncomfortable, or inconvenient. You have to sink hours and hours into it at the expense of more normal things. And you have to defend it like a mother bear, else the vermin and weeds of the world will destroy it, mercilessly and without hesitation.

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Not the garden in question, but a nice local one nonetheless!

I run past that garden, and it isn’t much, but it’s surviving. And I can’t help but think of the garden in my head: the one I don’t have the time or the energy for right now, the one that is choked to death with weeds of uncertainty over this move (still in limbo!).

And I really want to get my hands dirty.


Spiderwebs


What else in nature is like the spider web?

Horrible, lovely little creations, woven by horrible, lovely little creatures — a perfect little metaphor for writers and their stories.

Well, kind of.

Spiders, after all, spin webs not because they’re getting older and they’ve always wanted to be web spinners, and if not now, when? They spin webs because their spidery nature compels them to. They spin webs because if they don’t, they will literally die. That’s writer-y.

And when they spin their webs, they don’t stress out about it. They don’t look to the great web spinners of days gone by or read web-weaving advice on the interweb (haw). They get that hot little urge across the thorax and set about spinning the web that nature intended. Writers, on the other hand, are a bit prone to obsessing. A bit emotionally attached to their work. A bit more neurotic.

And they (spiders!) weave these bloody marvels. Stunning in their perfect cascade of concentric circles, yet shot through with smears of imperfections. Mathematical in their construction, yet organic in their execution. Each one a thumbprint or a snowflake — perfectly like every other, yet perfectly distinct. Poetry in nature. The kind of thing that could make even a frozen-hearted atheist like me think there’s a design behind all this.

(Of course, the spider web’s design isn’t there for beauty, it’s there so the spider can entrap hapless insects and devour them from the inside out, but that part doesn’t really work for my metaphor, so we’ll just skip over that.)

But that’s hardly our regular interaction with a spider web, is it? Our usual, default interaction with a spider web goes something like:

  1. *walking along, minding my own business, probably thinking about that video with the fainting goats I watched*
  2. *steps into spider web strung between a car and a tree in a parking lot of all places*
  3. *staggers around blindly trying to pull invisible threads off my face and shoulders*
  4. *spots a speck in my peripheral vision and oh GOD IS IT ON ME IS IT ON ME*
  5. *sets fire to self in an effort to banish that sticky feeling*

Because we just don’t notice them. They’re not a part of what we’re looking for as we go through the world, so we walk right by them never knowing they’re there in the best case, or blunder into and destroy them in the worst. And we therefore miss out on a treasure trove of ephemeral jewelry every day.

Unless something forces you to see them.

Like, for example, a foggy haze hanging over your early-morning run.

Fog is its own wonderful writing metaphor. It obscures what’s in the distance and forces you instead to pay extra-close attention to what’s all around you. Like the spider web hanging in the branches of that tree overhanging the road. Or that one nestled in your neighbor’s topiary. Or that one clinging to the underside of a streetlamp. Or — holy sharknado, there are spider webs EVERYWHERE.

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Like this one, captured with my terrible smartphone camera.

Invisible and unnoticed most of the time, the kiss of the morning fog makes them explode into life. Each of them the tiny and insignificant void-shout of a creature fighting for its survival in a pitiless universe. Insignificant, that is, for all but the unwitting fly that finds itself ensnared.

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Or this much prettier one by AdinaVoicu.

And those are a writer’s ideas, aren’t they? Perfect little imperfections spun into existence by a creature that literally doesn’t know how not to spin them. Beautiful and terrible and sticky and OH MY GOD IT’S IN MY HAIR AND I CAN’T GET IT OUT.

Look a little bit closer. Notice an idea that might have slipped by otherwise.

Get some spiderwebs in your hair.


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