I love similes and metaphors

When used in moderation, that is. I've recently started to edit my literary fiction novel and because I haven't touched it since I finished in May, I stumble over one or the other surprise. I admit, that I wrote most of the book when I had too much wine, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe for my liver, but certainly not for the book. Fear not, I didn't make a habit of it, that book, though, seemed to require drastic measures.

I challenged myself with that novel. When I re-read the part I wrote the night before, I was amazed what I came up with. And it was often hard to write, but I loved every minute of it. I also learned that I've got a knack for similes and metaphors, something I never knew I had in me. To me literary fiction is beautiful prose, character driven, rather than plot driven; it's letting the reader look at a person from a different angle. Not necessarily unreadable, which many books in this genre are. I like it simple and want to prove that you can produce a readable novel when breaking all the rules there are. And yes, I use similes and metaphors in it, not too many, they're neatly fitted without overpowering the rest.

Here are a few examples:

Finally the tiredness overcomes you and for the last time tonight, before you close your eyes, a shadow of unease reaches out, hoping for a ride into your dreams.

You like to play with emotions, possibilities, meanings. With sentences, skilfully built as they appear on screen as beautiful as rainbows against the grey sky. Each word a different colour.

Then, there's reading; letters that form sentences, sentences that touch your feelings, being transferred into the depth of your mind while your eyes scan each and every word twice, searching for a deeper meaning.

Now, that the sun is gone, the chill wraps around you like a cold blanket. 

She's like a figure behind frosted glass, showing shades and shapes, but never gives a clear vision of what's behind.

And another passage:

The blue sky has made way for a wide range of grey. Soft warm raindrops fall onto your face, soak through your shirt. In general, you love the summer rain, to sit underneath a roof or window and hear its harmonious drumming. It's the time when you write, a whiskey to one side and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts to the other. No music, as it would distract from the rhythm dictating the tempo of your synapses' transmitting. On days like that you feel free of all your commitments. A man who is one with himself, a soul at peace and a light mind, without the ballast of everyday life; your brain pleased to receive the exercise it so desperately needs. 
  

The novel is written in second person, present tense, the characters are not named and the reader is mostly in the male MC's head. As soon as I'm finished with revamping the novel, I'll have a few other Beta readers who have expressed interest. Wish me luck. The novel is written in second person, present tense, the characters are not named and the reader is mostly in the male MC's head. As soon as I'm finished with revamping the novel, I'll have a few other Beta readers who have expressed interest. Wish me luck.

Oh and you'll find a slightly longer excerpt here: