Those Dang Apples and Oranges

Someone recently posted a photo of a man holding a sign comparing President Obama to terrorists. There was a lot of drama around the post and my response, but in a nutshell, I was annoyed by the failed analogy.

What is an analogy? A comparison between two things, on the basis of their shared structure, to explain or clarify. Or, a partial similarity, where there is a foundation of similarity between two things that are dissimilar.

In other words, you have two things. They are not the same, but at their foundation you can find something that is similar. As in the old saying about not being able to compare apples and oranges. Well, I suppose you could argue that at their most basic they are both fruit.  We’ll keep it simple here, though, and not get into rhetoric (reasoning or explaining from parallel cases), simile (an expressed analogy) or metaphor (an implied analogy).

So, with that in mind, it annoys me when people use, or try to use, an analogy incorrectly. I have to admit it annoys me because I do it wrong so many times. Just reading the definitions above is confusing, let alone trying to write analogies successfully.

Sometimes an analogy doesn’t work because the punctuation or completeness of a sentence fails. Or I misread it. One of my favorites was (thankfully) not written by me. ‘The cat jumped high, like an elephant.’ What appealed to me was the image of an elephant jumping as high and graceful as a cat. And then I pictured a cat jumping as high as the elephant was tall. Suffice to say the analogy didn’t work for me because it raised too many questions. Plus I still am not sure it was even an analogy.

But back to the original post. People have very strong political opinions, especially these days. I am not commenting in favor of one party or another, or taking a stand on anything political here. I am taking a writing stand however. I found the photo so stupid. How can you compare the president to a terrorist? What is the foundation of similarity? I’m sure there will be someone who will come up with a basis of similarity and tell me I’m wrong, but I’m going to continue on my merry way here.

The impact of that photo was lost because the analogy just didn’t work.

If you’re going to use an analogy, make sure you understand what it means, why it works, and why it doesn’t; whether you’re writing a novel, a poem, or making a political sign.

And I still want to see an elephant jump.

To Edit

Next week we will leave the rain, the forest, and the mountains for holidays with family in the high open plains of northeastern Montana. As far north and east as you can get and still be in the state. The days will be longer because there is nothing to block the light, compared to here at this time of year, when the sun is too weak to lift itself up from behind the ridge. And it will be very, very cold; already below zero.

I will be spending time with family, enjoying the holidays of course, and enjoying the break from chores and responsibilities at home. But even more than that, I am going to have lots of writing time because I seem to be the odd one in the family, who gets up before noon.

The first, very rough, draft to The Memory Keeper‘s sequel was finished several weeks ago. It has been left to its own devices while I started on a new project. As most know, that gestation time is important in order to allow time to distance yourself from the words. It allows you to be more objective when you finally return to the page. Every time something is finished, I wonder as I set it aside, how long it will have to sit. Some will tell you to leave it a few weeks, some a few months.

As with most things to do with writing, it depends on the writer. I know, for me, it’s time to start the first edit when I find myself starting to wonder about the story again. When it first gets put away, I won’t think about it at all. Relief will be the overriding emotion. Relief that it’s finally finished. But eventually I find myself wondering if I remembered to do something, or if a character remembered to say something. Sometimes I even wonder what I wrote.

If I’ve reached the point that I can’t remember the story, that to me is the starting edit bell.

And it’s perfect timing since I have this vacation approaching. And so as I pack this coming week, I’ll be packing the three-ring binder with all the printed pages, the highlighters, the blank paper for all the revisions, and the red pen. The story may be worse than I think, or better than I think. But either way it’s going to be fun.

Home for the holidays

An Occasional Memory

My grandfather, a heavy drinker, raised my mom alone for a while. Until one night a woman drove by their house and saw a chimney fire. Ethel stopped to tell them and, as the story goes, ended up coming back as a housekeeper and to take over raising my mom. So to us, Ethel was like a grandmother even though we called her Auntie.

Her house at Christmas is one of my most vivid memories and has shaped what the holidays are for me.

Picture a short woman with ‘an immense bosom’ who never left the house without the wool suit, purse, gloves, heels, and pill-box hat matching. And then add a very firm, earthy, and fearless personality.

Her home was heated with oil and a boiler sat in the dining room. It made scary noises and the pilot flame was visible at the bottom. I knew the thing would blow up some day. There is a distinctive smell to that oil and it permeated the house.

A fireplace in the living room held a magic fire on Christmas Eve. Auntie had some sort of sparkly powder that, when tossed on the fire, made the flames a myriad of colors. From the mantle hung ugly red plastic mesh stockings full of oranges, walnuts, those gross hard candies that had some sort of mashed fruit in the middle, and bottles of school paste. As awful as the stockings were, I would have been heartbroken if they had ever held anything different.

The tree was small and the decorations quite old. I remember white birds sitting on the branches. A string of lights that were porcelain Santa heads. Another string of tiny metal bells. The Santa heads caught on fire one year. But I still have one left, strung with fraying ribbon, that I hang on my tree.

The presents were always functional. Socks, underwear, etc. Each package came with one stick of Wrigley’s gum taped to it. Occasionally one of us will still put a stick of gum on a package.

But the best part about Christmas Eve at her home was the smell. Not the oil burner. She was one of those cooks from an era of no recipes, just handfuls and pinches. There would be this heavy dark cake made with applesauce, cloves, allspice, and cinnamon, and no eggs. She called it her depression era cake. I called it a winter cake. I’m the one that makes it these days, and to me that dark, spicy denseness speaks of snow and packages and magic fire.

So house smelled of spices. Fried chicken and fried smelt. And candles and the resin sap of the tree. Of age and old mohair armchairs that scratched your skin. Of even older Reader’s Digest magazines stacked and unread. Of beeswax from polishing the upright piano. Of Pledge from dusting all the photos on top of the piano.

Christmas Eve to me was smothering hugs from Auntie (remember those large bosoms?), flour on the apron, firelight, Christmas tree lights on packages, all my favorite foods, the sense of being safe and loved, and the knowledge that if any dreams were going to come true, they would do so as I sat, dreaming, next to the multi-colored flames.

If I feel myself losing the magic of the winter solstice, of that slow turning toward sleep of the world around me, all I have to do is conjure up Auntie’s house.

I wish for you the return of good memories and old magic for your holidays.