Where a synecdoche is a specific type of metonym, a merism is a specific type of synecdoche in which a phrase refers to something by the name of a few of its components (usually two in contrast). Like other metonyms, their usage most often comprises pre-established terms (such as saying “high and low” or “near and far” to mean “everywhere“), rather than existing in unique cases.
The slog can corrode you, mind and body. [Referring to the ‘whole of a person’ to mean completely]
Don’t let the slog waste your blood, sweat, and tears. [Referring to products of ‘bodily exertion’ to mean hard work]
Being the worst is the slog‘s bread and butter. [Referring to ‘basic needs’ (by way of food) as a function of their acquisition to mean manner of supporting oneself]
Tautology is a multifaceted concept. In most cases, it refers to something contextually uninformative. This can be as simple as a redundant word or phrase (“He burnt his hand in hot fire.”, “Julie the bachelorette arrived last, without a husband.”), but in what I’d call its most interesting form, a tautology is an entire assertion that is rendered intrinsically meaningless strictly because it is inherently true.
With so many ways to convey information in language, there is just something I find almost artfully ridiculous in the construction of a syntactically and semantically sound statement which nevertheless effectively communicates nothing under any interpretation.
The stupid things that the slog does are all stupid.
Aside from being an uglier word to say than look at, a synecdoche is a specific type of metonym where something is referred to by either a component of itself or, conversely, a broader category to which it belongs. When I call myself a writer, I’m naming one aspect of the process to say that I’m a storyteller.
I need to find a way to put the slog in irons. [Referring to shackles by their material]
Seeking to escape the slog, we entreated the Church to grant us asylum. [Referring to specific people by the organization they belong to, and that organization by the building it works in]
Anadiplosis is the repetition of a clause or sentence’s final word(s) at the beginning of the clause or sentence that follows it. Often strung together to emphasize a linear progression (think Yoda’s mantra, “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”). With a little reflexivity, it can also set up chiasmus or antimetabole.
I hate the slog; the slog is awful. Awful things are no good – good things are much better.
He entered the house, and the house had many rooms, but the rooms were full of boxes, the boxes were stuffed with notes, the notes contained a warning, and that warning read “Beware the slog.”
Money is the universal shortcut. You can get just about anything with it. Sometimes for a lot less than you’d think.
In my line of editing work, I come across a lot of want-ads for ghostwriting. Now, I can look the other way when it comes to surrogate writing in certain scenarios – you’re a not-so-eloquent public figure who needs the notes and rough drafts for your topical book or memoir worked into something fluid? Sure, O.K. But I’m talking about ghostwriting for fiction. Things like: “I need a sci-fi novel written. Preferably something to do with space exploration. Need it to be around 70,000-80,000 words. Must sign NDA and forgo copyright. I’m willing to pay up to $500.” (No joke!) It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there would be a few people out there with that kind of audacity, but I see a dozen of these a day. And what’s even crazier – these listings get a ton of responses!
It’s a little hard to believe. I can’t see the appeal to either side of this arrangement. Does anyone really love the writing process itself so much that they’d be willing to undertake the grueling process of producing a novel for pennies an hour, only to forsake any rights and claims to their own creation upon completion? Is anyone so desperately enamored with the idea of being known as a writer that they would be satisfied with the hollow “achievement” of putting their name on someone else’s work? Apparently the answer is a disturbingly frequent yes on both accounts – it’s a big industry. It baffles me. It really does.
If I’m being entirely honest, I suppose I would consider ghostwriting a novel for someone if I were offered an absurd amount of money to do so (financial freedom to pursue other projects is nothing to take lightly), but these jobs are being offered at too comical a salary to be considered “just work”. I could never quite comprehend the sentiment behind the other side of the table, though. If you want to be a writer then, you know – write! At the very least seek a co-author if you need help with a specific book. I simply can’t see fiction-ghostwriting as something that has any reason to be a thing – particularly not as big of a thing as it is.
But I’m curious to hear others’ thoughts on the matter. Have you ever had experience with ghostwriting (from either side)? Would you ever consider it? Am I taking crazy pills?
This is a fun one. Chiasmus occurs when parallel phrases/clauses are syntactically or semantically inverted. It can be as simple as reversing parts of speech (such as the order of a verb and its adverb), or it can set up statements with poetic symmetry. Probably better explained by showing than telling.
I hate that the slog exists, and what it does I despise.
I wish that the slog would suddenlydisappear and diehorribly.
From a muse you get inspiration; you only get inhibitionfrom the slog.
The slogis stupidlike a rock, but like a boulder it can crush you.
When the twelve-year-old Heroine of the Fairwoods dies, her morose twin sister reluctantly joins her trusty gryphon sidekick on a quest to save the enchanted land in her stead.
The giveaway I did at Goodreads a few months back got some decent traction, so I figured I’d do a quicker, smaller one here just for my fellow ‘bloggers.
Let’s try this: If you’d like a chance to win a free signed copy of this cynical fairytale novella, just reblog this post. I’ll gather up the names from the track-back comments, throw them into a randomizer, and announce a winner in two weeks (July 21, 2013). I don’t anticipate many entrants, so your chances should be pretty good!
[This giveaway is for the physical (print) edition. The eBook, as always, can be acquired for free at your favorite retailer (Kindle | iBooks | Nook | Sony | Kobo) or direct download (ePUB | PDF).]
Metanoia, as a rhetoric device, is following up a statement with another of similar sentiment but contrasting severity. When strengthening the original idea, it can be used as a clarifier or an escalating gradient; when softening it, it can create a mild recanting or a dramatic understatement.
I fear that the slog is going to hinder me – that it’s going to smoother my brain, dull my senses, and rip the joy out of everything I do.
The slog is the absolute worst. It’s just…really not my favorite thing, you know?
Epanalepsis is the repetition of a sentence’s (or occasionally clause’s) first word or phrase at its end. Used for a particular sort of poetic emphasis, it can sound pretty awkward if not done carefully.
Wretched is the slog, for its intentions are wretched.
You must be wary of the slog‘s embrace; it is cruel yet inviting, and of its allure you must be wary.
I often find myself reading five or so books at a time. I don’t necessarily like to…it just happens.
I don’t use bookmarks. I just remember what page I left off on.
I suppose I appreciate the idea of dust jackets (fancy graphic cover AND classy textured actual cover), but in practice I also kind of hate them. I try to leave them on when reading, since I don’t like having to find somewhere to put them, but they’re just…slippery and annoying. I’d prefer all hardbacks be print-on casebound.
I take care to preserve not only the spine, but also the page edges. I can’t stand the green streaks that manifest toward the middle from prolonged holding (mainly an issue with the cheaper acid paper used in mass market paperbacks).
I hate writing in books, even if they’re workbooks or madlibs or what-have-you meant for writing in.
My eyes will sometimes jump to the middle or bottom of a page to spite me (particularly in interesting passages). When this gets particularly bad, I’ll put a hand over the lower part of the page to prevent myself from reading ahead.
A book has to be really, really awful or boring for me to actively give up on it once I’ve committed to reading it. But I tend to have a longer attention span than most (ironically enough, considering the first point), and am more willing to force myself to seek the merit in things.
Anyone else up for confessing your own? (>^-‘)>
*Does that sound like someone who beats books with a stick?