Warm, fluffy adjectives bounce right off me. If my loved ones or acquaintances had to describe me, “compassionate” would not be one of the first ten words out of their mouths. (I’m saved from looking like a complete heel because they all know I’m a sucker for furry, doe-eyed animals like puppies and ponies.)
…just so happens to be the redheaded stepchild* of recovery?
In creative writing 101, they didn’t let us write genre fiction (i.e. detective stories, space wars, racy romance smut). In photography 101, they didn’t let us take pictures of flowers. When I worked at an animal shelter, they didn’t let us name dogs Duke or Sophie. Clichés are less likely to be read, looked at, and yes, less likely to be adopted (take that literally and otherwise).
I have closet clichéophilia. They make me cringe when I see them in published pieces, but in life, they’re my starting block. Continue reading