RHETORICAL DEVICES IN CREATIVE WRITING

It’s been a little while since I last posted anything so I thought I would dedicate this post to writing and a few writing techniques.

RHETORICAL DEVICES IN CREATIVE WRITING

Whilst studying psychology, one of the courses inside of that included a topic on verbal and written communication. It was a topic that I found particularly interesting, especially when we covered the persuasive techniques that are often used in political speeches or in debates. However, upon going onto rhetorical devices, I realised that not only did these persuasive forms of writing appear in speeches and debates but they also often made an appearance in fiction. After all, it makes sense that a writer would use such techniques that enable them to not only draw in the listeners and the readers but the keep their attention too. The list of techniques is plentiful so here is a quick look at just a couple of them:

Personification

Personification. I remember learning about it in primary school and it is a concept and technique that has always stuck with me.

According to my trusty dictionary (because it always comes in handy to have one near you – whether it be a book, phone app or internet link) to personify is “to give human characteristics to (a thing or abstraction)”.

As a writing tool, this can really make your writing come alive.

The darkness can loom and stalk. The wind can caress and whisper. Destiny can mock and tease.

The options are endless and depending on which way you take it, you can change and alter the mood of a story or scene.

Irony

In life and in writing, irony can bring a smile to your face. Generally it is the use of a word or a phrase that whilst meaning one thing, in the context of the story the opposite ends up true. The first example I can think of is one I saw in motion awhile back. Irony in this case was in the form of a small red van being overtaken by lorries on a motorway because it was going so slow and yet the name of the company on the side of the van was ‘Speedy’.

As well as being used in short scenarios and for comic relief, irony can also be used in the wider context of the story. An example would be in the case of character development – that useless, good for nothing farm boy eventually turning out to be the hero of the tale or the innocent, kindly character proving to be the true villain of the piece.

Irony also, can be used to foreshadow events. A twist of words met only in jest early on in the story can end up coming true.

Lists of three

I can be quite bad for this one. Usually it’s a subconscious thing, when listing something, three examples just seems right. There’s something about the beat of three things being listed that has an effect. You can see that I used this when giving examples of personification.

Sometimes two examples will do, sometimes more are needed, but often, three concise examples can have an impact, and mostly, in my opinion, this is to do with rhythm. Whether writing a story or a poem, rhythm can have a big impact on a reader. If it lacks rhythm, the reader may feel it’s awkward. So lists of three is one way to give a sense of rhythm.

And I’m going to end this blog post on that note, after giving my list of three rhetorical devices that can be used as writing devices.

If you look over your work or work of others, you may see these being used, and sometimes the writer doesn’t even realise they’re using them. They’ve subconsciously picked up these techniques by writing and through reading. The subconscious can be an amazing thing and a brilliant tool for the writer.

Psychology and Dogs

When I was studying psychology at university, one of the topics that came up was ‘the self’. In particular, this topic was applied to the early development of children. It described how, as babies grow into children and as they discover the world, they also discover themselves. For example, over time, they learn to recognise themselves in the mirror.

It’s been a couple of years since I finished my degree but I do remember one thing that stuck out for me during this module and this topic about ‘the self’. It’s something I’m reminded of time and time again, whenever my German Shepherd, Shadow, comes into my room. But before I go into that, I’ll start from the beginning.

Self-recognition. That’s what this is all about. The ability to look at yourself in your reflection and be able to say ‘hey, that’s me!’ (Not that we all greet our reflections in such a way – that would be weird...). This happens supposedly at around the age of 18 months. However, what stood out for me was how my lecturer noted how most animals don’t possess this self-recognition. Dolphins, they noted, and higher primates such as chimpanzees, were shown to – but most other animals, nope.

In my bedroom, I have a wardrobe with a full length mirror built on one of the doors – really helpful when I want to make sure that my top actually matches my jeans (though, most the time I wear the same old stuff so this is never really a problem). Now, I dare anyone to tell me that my dog, Shadow, does not recognise herself in my mirror.

Shadow, she’s my furry little monster who will pester me time and time again because she wants food or loves. She is extremely loving, to the point of irritation sometimes. But also, she’s extremely anti-social (a bit like me sometimes). Certain people she’s fine with, and she loves my other German Shepherd, Sacha – but Sacha was already here when Shadow was introduced to our family. Other dogs though, nope... Shadow really isn’t keen on other dogs, and that’s just out and about. The closer we get to home, the worse she gets. Another dog, in her territory? No way – Shadow would not like that at all.

And yet, here she comes, wandering into my room and there’s my mirror, with another dog in it. When she was younger, when she didn’t quite understand, there was a bit of confusion, but now – she doesn’t even bother. If Shadow truly doesn’t understand that the other dog in the mirror is her, why doesn’t she bark at it like she does at other dogs?

You could possibly say that she dismisses the mirror, like she does with the television – she knows it isn’t a threat, but that doesn’t mean she knows it’s her. But then, she doesn’t completely dismiss the mirror.

It’s hard to describe, but the way my bedroom is laid out: if my bedroom door is open and you’re out in the hall, you can see my bedroom mirror, and the way this mirror is positioned (at an angle) means if you look at the mirror, you can see me on my laptop. Vice versa, if I turn around and look in my mirror, I can see whoever is out in the hall (as long as they’re at the right angle). This includes dogs. So what am I getting at? Shadow will look at my reflection if she can’t see my face directly. She’ll meet my eyes through the mirror, and she knows it’s me, or at least, that it’s a reflection of me. Yes, I did fool her into thinking once that the reflection was actually me and the resulting reaction of confusion made me laugh so much. But dogs learn and they learn well, so she knows now that it was a trick.

So, if Shadow responds to my reflection in the mirror but not her own, what does that mean?

Her attention span is shorter than mine so that would make it incredibly difficult to perform tests like they did with the dolphins and chimps in order to see if they possessed self-recognition, so I’ve got no scientific proof that my dog also possesses this. I’ve only got my own belief, which wouldn’t hold up in psychological research, but is good enough for me.

Personally, all these studies about animals not recognising themselves in mirrors, I think they often forget one very simple thing – exposure. Surely it stands to reasons that the more someone or something is exposed to mirrors, the more they’ll come to understand how they work? Not all animals maybe, but I would say that it is ignorant to dismiss all animals simply because human beings are raised in a society filled with mirrors and reflections and animals, not so much.

Anyway... there’s a very random, non-writing related post for you. I promise, next post I post will be writing related... maybe.

Doubts

I haven’t been doing so well writing wise lately. Since finishing my latest fanfiction story, I’ve been struggling to concentrate. Part of this is because of a case of that infamous and dreaded ‘Writer’s Doubts’ that decided to creep up on me from behind and take me hostage. The ransom was too high so I had to fight my way free, though as many writer will tell you – when it comes to doubts, you are never fully in the clear. They’re always there, niggling at the back of your mind.

Consequently, it took me a little bit to convince myself that I’m not just deluding myself into thinking I can be a ‘proper writer’ like so many I admire. A lot of the time, it’s a matter of pushing on in the hopes that it’ll get better and that eventually you’ll get somewhere. Sometimes, you don’t truly believe the positive things you tell yourself, but you say them all the same because if you don’t, all those negative thoughts will gain too much control and you’ll find yourself in a downward spiral.

That’s kind of what I’ve been fighting against lately. It was made even worse when I tried to start some work on an old Nano story that needs completing – but before I can complete it, I need to rewrite what I’ve already written (all 50, 000 words of it) and remember where it was I was going in the first place. And it felt like a lot of work, as editing can be truly hellish work because it involves a much more critical eye than just writing.

So that didn’t work out. I couldn’t concentrate properly and I didn’t want to do a bad job of it because I felt like I should work on it. Instead, when I do edit it, I want to have my full concentration on it so that it’ll be the best it can possibly be for when the next stage of editing comes around.

Similar story with my latest Nano story too. Only, I tried to hold off on the editing and simply wanted to reread what I had already written for continuity’s sake. I didn’t want my main characters to have a backpack in one scene and then none in the next, or no backpack and then suddenly they have a magical one that appeared from thin air. That type of stuff can be evil to fix when editing (it really can!). Plus, I also needed to know how much I had already revealed to my main character and how much I had left to reveal...

I still want to do that. I still want to finish BOTH of these Nano stories and get them edited and ready to send out. But as my mind doesn’t seem to be in THAT place at the moment, with either of these stories, I’ve ended up putting both to the side, just for now.

Instead, I’m trying to concentrate on a new story. I’m hoping that something fresh, something new, will help kick-start my muse. I’m hoping this will be just what I need. I guess we’ll see.

In other news, I’ve finally started sending Nate out and I’m hoping something will happen with him this year. Whatever happens though, whatever doubts I run into, I won’t give up. Writers are writers for a reason. It’s in our blood and is impossible to deny.

“The easiest thing to do on earth is not write.” WILLIAM GOLDMAN

“The easiest thing to do on earth is not write.” WILLIAM GOLDMAN

I disagree with this immensely. As a writer, not writing can actually be bloody hard. Not writing often results in the urge and need to write and that feeling of guilt when it doesn’t happen. You start narrating things in your head more often, trying different words and twisting them altogether because you have a basic need to write – to create something and to make sense of the mess inside your head.

This doesn’t always mean writing prose or anything like that, it can simply be writing something like this – a small blog post or journal entry. Not all of what you write will be read, and not all of what you think will be written. But there is nearly always a need to write. So, not writing – not so easy. It’s like a smoker not smoking, or a coffee addict laying off the coffee, as writing is very much a drug.

I can understand how a person could come to the conclusion that not writing is easy, as writers aren’t constantly sitting at their keyboards, pounding out words and sentences, or sitting with their pens and writing on walls and flesh because they’ve ran out of paper. Also, procrastinating and putting writing off can be pretty easily done, especially when you find one of those websites with those funny pictures of cute animals or a new mindless game to get addicted to, but eventually, the withdrawal sets it.

As a writer, sometimes, not writing can be just as difficult as writing. Unlike some jobs, you can’t switch it off. I work as a checkout operator part time, but when my shift is finished, that’s it – I don’t sit at home thinking about which exciting item I’ll put through during my next shift (though maybe I should, as it might liven it up a little). But as a writer, the only time the writing bug isn’t niggling at me is when I’m truly distracted or when my brain has fried and just can’t think anymore. Even when I work on the checkout, I’ll think about writing and I always like to keep my notepad handy in case I think any thoughts are worth writing down. If I can’t write those thoughts down, there’s a possibility I’ll forget them and that... that drives me nuts and makes me feel antsy.

So in conclusion. No. I do not think that the easiest thing to do on earth is not write. Eating chocolate however... that is pretty damn easy.

Of Feathers and Fools

This is an old short story I wrote awhile back - not too long ago, just a year or two ago. But I've been thinking about it lately and thought I would post it on here. It's not my usual genre or style - for starters, it's romance, and it's also present tense. But it's good to try something different sometimes.

Of Feathers and Fools

Sitting in the high street with your steel strung acoustic guitar, your right hand strums the strings with delicate passion as your left moves to change the chord and note. Back against the lamppost, your foot taps the pavement and you close your eyes, letting the words flow flawlessly from your mouth. There is a rawness to it all, your voice enveloping passersby in the emotion it carries and I find myself watching from the doorway of the bookshop instead of stacking the shelves like I’m supposed to be.

            The song sounds familiar and I try to place the lyrics but every time I think I’ve got it, your voice pulls me back in and I forget what I was thinking. The songs change every Wednesday when you’re here, all except for this one. You play it every week and yet I still can’t remember where I’ve heard it before. That’s the curse that comes with daydreaming, thoughts so fragile and fleeting that I can barely hold on before another knocks them away.

            The pavement glitters in the sun from the coins that have missed your case, silver and copper against the harsh, cold grey of stone. A good week this week it seems, though most of your audience gets its show for free. It hardly seems fair - singing on the street for barely a twenty when you could be on the stage somewhere with a microphone and stool.

            Another powerful note brings me back to the song and a shiver runs through my body, my eyes closing briefly. What was I thinking again? It barely seems to matter as you close up the song and I realise it must be nearing three o’clock. Time for you to disappear for another week which means it’s time for me to get back to stacking shelves.

            The last few notes of the song drift in through the open doors as I pick up the box of last week’s top ten and I force myself to focus on where I’m headed instead of turning around to watch you. One of these days, curiosity will get the better of me and I’ll find out just where it is you go or if you simply disappear. You’re gone so quickly most weeks that it really wouldn’t surprise me to see you there one moment and vanished into thin air the next.

            Box number three now sitting out of the way, I stretch and curve my back as I stand, one arm up in the air and my other bent at the elbow, hand resting on my neck. A perfect manoeuvre. Except for the part where I nearly crash into the customer behind me as I bring my arm down. I can feel the heat rising up my back to spread across my cheeks and burn at ears, embarrassment causing my eyes to drop to the ground. A mumble slips past my lips and I’m sure it was supposed to be an apology though it sounds nothing like it out loud.

            He laughs and takes the blame which makes me feel worse. Especially since I recognise that voice, even if I can never remember where I’ve heard the song before. It’s you… your voice asking me if I’m okay. And there’s a tiny touch of gravel to it, yet the smoothness wraps around me like a warm blanket. Or maybe that’s just the touch of your hand on my arm, steadying me. 

Finally I raise my head to look into pale blue eyes but I’m too stunned to speak and so I nod instead. It makes your smile widen and I catch the glimpse of a dimple in your cheek. My eyes fall again. What am I supposed to say with you standing there right in front of me? What am I supposed to do that won’t make me look like the fool I am? So I ask you what I ask every other customer I’ve talked to in the store. Only I stammer and can’t look you in the eye. “C-can I help you with anything?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a book.” I barely hear what you say, too busy concentrating on my breathing as my head begins to spin a little. But I manage to nod again, signalling for you to carry on and you do. You take a step away and place your guitar case on the ground, your hand going up to your chin as your eyes scan the shelves for the elusive book you just can’t find. “I can’t remember the name or the author but I remember the cover. It was white and had a feather on the front.”

“A feather…” It sounds as familiar as the song you sing and I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere recently yet my mind stays blank. For a moment, my eyes join yours in their search of the bookshelf but the only white cover holds simply words, no feather. So I move to kneel down next to the boxes of the old top ten, my fingers running along the folds of the last one I’d moved as I open it to search inside. “If we have it, I’ll find it. It just might take awhile.”

“No rush.” Your voice is relaxed and you turn away from the books to face me.  I can see it in your eyes, just how willing you are to wait. So you tell me you’ll be back and I can do nothing but nod as you turn and leave the store. It isn’t until you’ve made it out of the door that I realise you’ve left your case behind.

Within moments, I’m at the entrance, calling out but I don’t know your name so I can only call you Mister instead. You’re gone, of course. Just like every other time. You disappear and I never know where to. Perhaps you merged with the disbanding crowd or maybe you truly did vanish. But you’ll be back - if not for the book then for your case. Your guitar is as much a part of you as page is to a book, or a wing is to a bird. I can’t imagine you without it.

But you don’t come back. Not that Wednesday, or the following Wednesday or even the Wednesday after that. Then a year later, I stop coming back too and it’s another four years before I find myself at the store again.  It feels like a lifetime and the place has changed so much – I’ve changed so much. For starters, I’m a writer now and my book is in the top ten. I can see it on display from where I sit signing autographs for customers who don’t really know who I am. But my name is on a cover of a book so I must be famous right?

The song on the radio sounds familiar and I close my eyes to listen as the last customer wanders away with their newly signed book. The cover is white and instead of a title, the front holds only my name and a picture of a single feather. I didn’t even realise how it matched your elusive book until I walked through those doors and saw the distant memory in play. I wonder what happened to you, you and your steel strung acoustic guitar.

I imagine watching you from the doorway, the afternoon bright as you lean against that same old lamppost. The lamppost is gone now though, just like you, but the memory remains. That voice of yours that entranced me as the notes from your guitar danced through the air to make my body vibrate. I miss those days.

“You found my book.” The voice wakes me from my daydream and my eyes snap open to meet a pair of pale blue orbs. They haven’t changed since those five years ago. Still so patient and so bright, locked with mine as you hold the book in your hand, your fingers tracing the outline of the feather. “Will you sign it?”

I open my mouth to speak but my mind knows no words that can adequately cover the confusion of my thoughts and just like before, I end up nodding instead. My grip loose on my pen, I take the book from you and rest it on the table. I’ve been signing my name all day yet now I can’t even remember what it is. A sly glance at the poster on display reminds me and my pen moves to the blank front page, only to pause. “W-who do I make it out to?”

“Matthew.” Without hesitation, you answer. It makes my heart speed up to hear you finally have a name. I repeat it in my mind before allowing the ink to stain the page, making sure each letter is just right before I finish up and hand the book back to you. I’m almost reluctant to let go when you reach out and take it, fingers brushing lightly against mine. “Can I ask where you got the idea from?”

“It was a dream I had, a long, long time ago.” A dream I had as a child to be more accurate. A dream half forgotten until five years ago. About a girl who found a feather and with it, an angel with the most mesmerising eyes she had ever seen. Eyes much like yours.

Your hand snakes out to sit below my chin and you make sure I can’t look away. But hand or no hand, I couldn’t have looked away even if I had wanted to. Your gaze holds me in a trance and I barely even notice my own hand moving to feel the skin of your cheek. It’s soft to the touch, reminding me of the feel of feathers on a warm summer day. And I suddenly fear you’ll disappear again.

You smile softly and shake your head though, as if you know exactly what I’m thinking. Without saying it, you’re telling me you won’t disappear. Or at least that’s what I hope you’re saying. Still that song on the radio plays, only now I wonder if it was you who put it there. The familiar words and chords from a steel strung acoustic guitar. Once it fades, will you do the same?

But then you say something that I can only remember clearly from twice before - as a dreaming child and as a foolish bookshop girl. And the same words fall from your lips now, relaxed and patient, calming my erratic heart. Just like that time before, I can see it in your eyes, your willingness to wait no matter how long that wait may be. 

“No rush,” you say and a sigh slips passed my lips as you lean in to kiss my forehead. 

I can feel it in your kiss, that you would wait an eternity should you have to. But in that moment, I decide I can’t. I won’t let you disappear again to fade away like the waning notes of that familiar song. Whether awake, or whether still a child dreaming, I won’t let go. 

Even as the shop closes and the streets empty, the sky falling dark, stars invisible through the thick haze of orange from the lampposts, I hold on tight. I can see you clearly in my mind, sitting in the high street with that steel strung acoustic guitar. Your right hand strums the strings with delicate passion as your left moves to change the chord and note. Back against the wall, your foot taps the pavement and the words flow flawlessly from your mouth. The song echoes around my head and I clutch onto you all the more. Like a child clutching onto a feather they found in a dream. A feather that belonged to an angel with pale blue eyes.

“Don’t leave,” I whisper, eyes closed, afraid to open then in case I find you’re already gone.

“I never have,” you whisper right back, your breath warm against my skin. “I never will.”