I read one such manuscript just the other day. It features a family moving from London to France. The wife teaches herself to decorate furniture. There are many detailed chapters about sanding and scumbleglaze. Children orbit on the periphery and occasionally appropriate her paint. Other real life rarely intrudes. Her husband makes odd remarks about stress in his job, to remarkably little end. The heroine meets a few villagers but most of the ‘action’ concerns her plodding on with her quest to make ratty old chairs into smarter painted chairs. By the end of the novel…. she’s set up a business and she’s taking commissions. And nothing much has happened in between. Is that all
I love metaphors. I admit it. I love the paradox that sometimes the best way to evoke the essence of something is to describe something else. I love finding that perfect comparison between two seemingly incomparable subjects and thereby shedding new light on one or both subjects. I love the poetry of a metaphor, the impossible personification of ideas, feelings, things, and places.