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Back when I was still a freshman at Ball State University, I greeted a girlfriend at her place of work with a bouquet of red roses. It was the end of her shift, and it was Valentine's Day. I walked up to her desk, with all her co-workers gawking at us, and said, "Here, I got you a cliche." I rolled in laughter with the dust bunnies along the catacombs of my mind. Surely someone could appreciate both the flowers and the joke. But I was wrong. Apparently, she took one look at the flowers and surrendered to bliss, whereas after my one-liner, the sensation evaded her. (Guys, never ruin a woman's moment of joy. Just a tip.) See, it wasn't the cliche that sabotaged the story here, but a severe reaction to it. Such a life lesson carried on, even into my writing. Today, I will show you the right way to treat a cliche, a method which may prove handy in everyday life. Don't Listen to their Advice . . . at least most of it. Most writers will tell you that you should always turn a cliche on it side. The idea is to avoid plot ideas that will lead to cliched notions, or if you encounter one during your writing, you should take the opposite direction of what is obvious. However, I think if you always go against instinct, you'll end up with some very awkward stories. For instance, when a couple sees each other for awhile, at some point they're going to have that magical first kiss. Now, you can be unique with the situation, but the same cliche is still there. Cliches call for creativity, which means you should stop for a minute and examine which plot turns would be unexpected. No one wants to hear the same story over and over. But mind you, if you avoid the obvious turn too much or reach too far out, people will instantly notice. In real-life, though, be extremely creative. Calling a dozen roses a cliche isn't the best idea if someone else truly enjoys the gift. You Might Also Enjoy:
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AboutFear, focus, and the future. C.M. Humphries talks about writing, horror, and whatever. Archives
October 2018
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Her sharp nails clench my wrist and pull me closer, until I can see my reflection. From my forehead to the bridge of my nose, my flesh melts away, developing into a dark abyss much like her own.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Deep breaths through my nostrils, deep into my lungs, and out of my mouth, I focus in on silencing my erratic sounds. My heartbeat becomes nothing more than an unfamiliar drum in the background. I hear the knocking again.
READ MORE: "Facade"
