#flowery prose

[the960writers]

What is Purple Prose? Tips to Improve Your Story's Readability

Many writers love to get creative with their sentences, phrases, and word choice. However, if not careful, you can fall into the trap of usi

Many writers love to get creative with their sentences, phrases, and word choice. Some writers even prefer a more poetic or lyrical style to their prose. However, if not careful, writers can fall dangerously into the common writing trap of using “purple prose.” What is “purple prose” in fiction, and why should you avoid it? In this post, we’ll look at some examples of purple prose, and share our tips to help you avoid it.

[head-empty-river]

i've never lost my memory of the world, of myself, of money.

i've never destroyed a hotel room.

i've never threatened to ... do what he threatened.

i've never crashed a car into the sea.

i've never climbed up to a guard tower.

i've never left the carcasses of bottles in my wake.

i've never heard voices, from parts of myself, from the city, from an article of clothing.

i've never lost a fiance.

but.

i have wished to forget. i try to slip back into a dream when waking up, so many times it's become instinct, and have been late far too many times because of it.

i have destroyed my own room. in the more average, depression way. clothes unwashed everywhere, sheets in need of laundry, floor in need of vacuuming from litter dust and dead skin.

i have talked to myself, to my cat, because there is no one else to listen.

i have ... hurt myself. i'm always careful to be secret about it, to stay alive, since it would hurt more than living to cause someone the pain of grief.

i have climbed a fire escape, with friends, for the rush. and because i'd rather he not climb alone.

i have never had a car to crash, because i've had too many nightmares of crashing them.

i have stumbled home at 3am, leaving a drink half full on the sidewalk, only because i knew having another sip would make getting home impossible.

i have lost friends, and her. to the slow pull of time, the expanding universe making us ever-more distant. to be blocked without more explanation than that she felt trapped talking for the past year. i'd known her for three.

i've rationed substances with strict guidelines, so i don't go too far.

i've been in the "homosexual underground"

i've been quiet in the face of others' grief, of my own.

harrier is a hyperbole of me. and kim too.

and it makes me feel broken and whole to feel so seen. it makes me feel real. makes me feel like poetry is possible again. makes me feel like i can find someone who doesn't leave, doesn't hate me, even if i did things as bad as harry has. and i don't plan on that. it just gives me hope that if he can, then i can.

[sam-roulette]

you can't touch the stars. even if you devote yourself to the sky, throw your insignificance into the cosmos for the love of your God, the stars will remain as far away as they always have.

that's the name of the game, of course. it's the Vast or it's nothing. the distance is put between you and the rest of everything as a threat, as a warning, and you love that space between the same way you love the dips between beads on a necklace, the spaces between your ribs where someone peering into the bars of your chest might sky your too small heart tucked away and fluttering fast hymns in its tiny tissue wings, lost in space.

they say if you're high up and you put your hand out the window, your fingers will catch in the high altitude and play with God's beard before you drive off the mountainside. the wind spoke to me when i was a girl and tried to launch myself off the swing and into the clouds. i used to ask it to blow for me and i liked to think it listened; but how much lovelier is it that our love of air and cold and vast gales coincided in just that moment, intimate to none but us and meaningless to the world? it didn't hear me as a girl and doesn't hear me as a man and never will no matter how i change, and i sing its praises regardless.

so you want to catch the sky in your hands. so you want to peel away a sliver of blue or a cloud or two, or you want to reach to the stars and pluck them like fruit, and it is temptation, and it is heartbreaking, and it is wonderful in turn. it is torture because it will never happen and because the stars are vaster than those little gems that fit under your tongue alongside the night air and because the distance keeps us all apart. it's beautiful because we can still keep holding out our hands and hoping to snag even the smallest glimmer of eternity, even when there is nothing here to grasp with.

the stars are not for us. but we still reach.

[gramrgednangel]

Honor the writer's voice

Honor the writer’s voice

Editors are told to “honor the writer’s voice.” But what does that mean, exactly? It does not mean that we leave their errors in place; that would be shirking our responsibility as editors. I would hope that’s obvious, but I’ve learned that what I think is obvious is often anything but to others. To honor the writer’s voice, we have to get a feel for their style. Do they use contractions, or do…

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[shackled-cleric]

The smell of diesel and the hot, humid air bearing the hints of rain on the horizon. A nostalgic desire for the slow rolling of a small ship in a large lake. Laying relaxed in a hammock strung loose between the fly bridge and mast. The calling of gulls fresh in my ears and the clamor and din of the streets a distant memory, tucked back in my mind. This call of the sea goes unanswered while it's temptations are forever at the forefront of my thoughts.

[wolffwood]

when you get back to university after writing fiction all summer and forget how to write essays