Nine Worlds: Feedback Loops & Transmedia Storytelling


Two academic talks: “The Afterlife of the Dalek Emperor – Spinoff material, canon and intertextuality in Doctor Who” by Fiona Moore and Alan Stevens, and “Roleplaying games: transmedia studies and producer/consumer relationships” by Allen Stroud.

Okay, so this blog post won’t actually be about that, exactly. Whilst I am a Doctor Who fan, it’s in a fairly casual way. I don’t know the original series or the wider verse, and Moore and Stevens clearly care way more about this stuff than I do. So mostly this blog post will be about Allen Stroud’s paper, with the occasional Moore/Stevens comment thrown in where relevant.

Consumption & Creation

At its simplest, transmedia storytelling is the use of multiple media channels to tell a story, be they books, TV, film, radio, audiobooks, comics, graffiti, semaphore or smoke signals from distant mountain tops. Different media requires the story to be told in different ways (it’s hard to get the complexities of internal dialogue into smoke signals, for example) so the nature of the story alters depending on the channel in use. 

The consumer’s (the term ‘reader’ isn’t always applicable here for obvious reasons) experience of the story is still usually linear. You mostly consume a story via different formats consecutively, rather than trying to take in multiple channels at once. But transmedia storytelling means that the narrative itself isn’t necessarily linear. It’s fragmented, with lots of different perspectives and potentially lots of different starting points:

multi linear transmedia

Reproduced by kind permission of Allen Stroud

  • Multi-linear transmedia narrative means that the entry point can be anywhere and the story should still work.
  • Fragmented narrative means that the consumer must collect all the pieces of the story in order for it to make sense.
  • Layered narrative means each piece of chapter will stand alone as a single story but the more the consumer experiences, the more information they have around the story and therefore the greater their understanding.

The consumer therefore starts to make choices (knowingly or not) about what content or chapter is consumed in what order via which medium. With layered narratives, they have to put in ‘more than non-trivial effort’ in order to engage with the story, such as codes, seeking out more chapters on other channels, and so on. This is called ergodic literature.

This is also the point at which the consumer can start to contribute, which can lead to issues of content ownership (and this is where my notes from Moore/Stevens become relevant). Does fan-made content contribute to the creation of a wider story universe, and a dialogue between consumer and creator? Or does it represent a risk to IP rights? In the Doctor Who universe, the writers apparently need to keep a strict provenance of ideas and steer very clear of incorporating known fan ideas in order to avoid IP challenges. This obviously impacts their options on where they can take the story (as described in TV Topes’ article on Ascended Fanon, which gives multiple examples of this actually happening).

Working in Expanded ‘Verses

When you have multiple people contributing to the same story you end up with an expanded universe, or intertextuality – dialogues between different media within a single wider setting. This in turn leads to an external body of knowledge, or referential code, which builds up the distinctive features of that setting and allows consumers to fill in assumptions without always explaining them.

Take Bram Stoker’s Dracula as an example origin text. Modern vampire stories have to acknowledge stakes, garlic and so on because consumers already have that body of knowledge around the expected setting.

In a way, this gives power back to the consumer – the popular definition of the setting becomes more powerful and important than the reality or the origin text. At the very least, the expectation has to be acknowledged before it can be subverted.


Legally, expanded ‘verses can be problematic. In a collaborative franchise project who actually owns the IP? Do individual writers own individual plotlines and characters? If so, how do you ensure continuity? In the Doctor Who ‘verse, where this used to be the case, the wider story ended up with unresolvable contradictions. So should the franchise own everything? Is that fair on the individuals who are actually creating the story?

Macro to Mega

There’s a couple of handful terms for thinking about this stuff, and framing it:

  • Mythopoeia is “the weave within the story narrative primarily designed to project depth.” So, hinting at a wider universe which this singular story doesn’t have time to go into. Lies of Locke Lamora is a good example of this.
  • Megatext is “a shared subconscious catalogue of familiar themes in a genre.” We’re back to Bram Stoker and garlic, stakes, etc. with this. Where the theme of the setting is something widely known by the audience and written in by multiple non-collaborative authors who collectively build up a knowledge base.
  • Macrotext is “the guide for a specific fictional world, the frame work through which a large project of multiple outputs can be devised.” The worlds of Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, and so on. Any specified universe which ends up being used collaboratively and which therefore requires some consistent record.

Stroud made the point that macrotexts can be ‘mutable’. There will always be corners of the universe that haven’t previously been detailed and which can therefore be added to. This in effect keeps such fictional worlds alive and evolving. The trick is to avoid contradiction with established facts, as that’s how you break a devoted reader’s immersion. Which is where databases like Wookieepedia come in.

Next week: transformative works and the colonisation of historical space, which has more stuff on macro text and shared universe creation.

Nine Worlds: Barriers to Women in SFF Publishing


Science fiction, fantasy and horror writing seem to still be very much a boys club. Men are consistently reviewed more often in genre-related publications while also dominating ‘best of’ and ‘most anticipated’ lists. Is this because there are fewer women writers? Are publishers publishing fewer women? What about the marketing? We know there are brilliant female genre writers out there, so why aren’t more people reading their books, talking about their work, and including them in lists of favourite writers?

Megan Leigh, Charlotte Bond, Lucy Hounsom, Gillian Redfearn, Lydia Gittens, Alasdair Stuart

downloadRegular readers of this blog have already met Charlotte Bond, one of the hosts of podcast Breaking the Glass Slipper, thanks to her recent guest post. Well, I was lucky enough to get into a very select audience of a live recording of BtGS‘s tenth episode at Nine Worlds. True to the general theme of equality, both of the Con and the podcast, this episode looked at why there is an imbalance of gender in published SFF authors and how this might be addressed.

I’m not going to write up the session for the simple reason that you can listen to it yourself by clicking here. And if you listen really carefully, at 1:09:00 you can even hear me ask a question!

Next week: telling stories in an expanded setting.

Nine Worlds: Foreign Languages in Genre Fiction


A discussion of how and why real – not invented – languages are used in science fiction, fantasy, horror and historical fiction, on page and screen. How accurately are they used and does verisimilitude matter? What assumptions do authors make about their audiences’ linguistic competence and identity?

Katrin Thier, Catherine Sangster, Simon Trafford

I loved this panel. I’ll state that now, for the record, because I took a lot of notes and might be about to go off on an enthusiastic rant. Much of what was said falls firmly into the ‘oh my god, that’s so obvious now you’re explained it’ category, but it mostly wasn’t stuff I’d thought of before.

Languages, like so many things in culture (colour is another prime example), are almost always used in literature to call up particular associations. They can alienate the reader or evoke particular emotions. They can demonstrate a difference in culture, social strata or education. In one period of British history, for example, the poor spoke English and the rich spoke French.

How to Use Language in Fiction

If you use a real language and you get it wrong, there are people who will notice. As with any poorly researched detail, this is how you lose or even antagonise readers. Google Translate won’t cut it. Find someone who can actually speak the language, or make it obvious that it isn’t correct (like the Latin in Harry Potter). Bear in mind that a lot of languages have sounds, letters and grammatical structures that English doesn’t. It’s very easy to get it wrong. That said, there’s a general assumption of monolingualism in modern audiences, meaning you need to use fairly basic markers to identify a foreign language. This will inevitably impact the accuracy.


Gallifreyan doesn’t even use the same method of writing

Don’t have foreign characters sprinkle bits of their own language into common speech. This isn’t realistic. If they’re going to drop back into their mother tongue, make it a whole sentence. It doesn’t necessarily matter if the reader can’t understand what they’re saying – the characters don’t have to understand each other either! You can always have one character ask for a translation, or an explanation of pronunciation if it’s important. Alternatively, you can have written translation devices so the listening character doesn’t understand the conversation in real-time but can review a report later. Biological translators, such as the Babel Fish in Hitchhiker’s Guide, are also a neat way around it.

If you’re using multiple languages and want the reader to be able to understand them all, one easy way of doing so is to use different fonts to denote different languages. Bear in mind, though, that not all editors and publishers like this. It also creates a variable look which might throw the reader out of immersion so think hard before you take this route.

Creating a Language

There’s a difference between a constructed language (such as Sindarin), and a fake language (such as Dovahzul) which mashes exotic sounds together without an underlying structure. If you’re going to use the language in any way extensively, a constructed language is a better bet.

What language tree would your created language come from? What associations does that bring about the culture which uses it? Remember that it needs to tie in and impact your fantasy culture (see the mention of German and Japanese two weeks ago). Also remember that insults and idioms tend to be culturally specific. In the past, I’ve looked up insults native to the particular culture I’m using as a base and translated them, which has given me some nicely unusual turns of phrase as well as that slightly exotic association.


You can go much further back than this. Language trees are awesome maps of history.

Also, remember that, when you’re creating genre fiction, you’re not creating in a vacuum. The influences on you are also familiar to your audience. If you co-opt Klingon, there’s a good chance they’ll notice.

There’s no agreed models for how to transcribe non-standard varieties of English (such as Scottish). As a writer, you need to achieve a balance between authenticity and comprehensibility. Personally, I don’t like reading literal pronunciations on the page – I think the reader has to work too hard to understand what’s going on and what the accent is, which throws them out of immersion. If you can make it clear with use of vocabulary and idiom, that’s much smoother.

Examples & Associations

Welsh was used in The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper to evoke mystery and ancient magic. There’s a psychological association with something alien but not foreign, which is very hard to achieve otherwise.

Mandarin was used in Firefly to signpost a new / future developed culture and history. It showed natural bilingualism as a common thing, even for uneducated characters. It was also a handy way of getting around the real life censors! The problem, however, is that it called up connotations that weren’t then fulfilled – read Frustrations of an American Asian Whedonite to see some of the traps of using a real world language without following through on the implications.


For an English-Mandarin culture, there’s an odd lack of Asian people in the Verse

Latin is the archetypal dead language, even though it’s not that dead! (Still actively used in science and medicine, for example.) There are a number of entrenched attitudes towards it, which always condition how we feel about the thing it’s being used for. Firstly, it’s indivisible from Western culture, easily recognisable and doesn’t need to be explained. By using Latin, you are making a very strong statement about the background culture. It is a status language which carries ideas of antiquity (both classical and renaissance), education (law, medicine, science), and religion.

In Harry Potter, ‘low’ spells such as cleaning have a Germanic base; ‘high’ spells have a Latin base. There are strong status implications, and possibly also gender ones. Interestingly, the two spells which use a Greek base are both healing spells. There’s apparently a fascinating essay called Ancient Tongues in the Wizarding World by M.G. DuPree which is well worth a read, but I’m afraid I couldn’t find an online link.

This led me onto a really interesting conversation with Simon Trafford after the panel. What about using other dead (deader) languages? I don’t speak Latin but I have used the one language I do know – Akkadian (aka Ancient Persian) – in my writing. How does that work? We decided that the more esoteric the language, the more work you have to do to explain where it comes from and set up the associations you want the reader to make. You do, however, have much greater freedom in defining those associations. Latin is instantly recognisable but you’re locked into working with the reader’s understood connotations.

Next week: women in SFF publishing.

Nine Worlds: The Chinese Don’t Do Sci-Fi?


China and Chinese aesthetics have been borrowed by the West as a sci-fi setting and McGuffin for years. Native Chinese science fiction, however, has remained relatively unregarded until very recently. Yet it has existed for over a century. This talk is a history of Chinese sci-fi and specualtive fiction from the turn of the twentieth century through to the present. Discover the influences of China’s unique history and culture on key themes and voices, from its first dawning to contemporary works.

Xueting Christine Ni

Disclaimer: I know basically nothing about Chinese history, literary, politics or culture. I know a tiny bit about the mythology, and I do mean tiny. If I make any mistakes in this blog, I sincerely apologise. Everything Xueting said was fascinating and my note-taking couldn’t always keep up.

Another World

Chinese fantasy is mostly set in the romanticised past of Chinese history, rather than creating new fantasy worlds.

The Chinese culture has been borrowed from extensively by the West to create futuristic otherworldly cultures. It’s “an alien culture without stepping onto a rocket”. This goes both ways – medieval Britain in classical Chinese 20th century literature is used in a similar manner.

The Politics of Sci-Fi


Kehuan Shijie, “SF World” – a Chinese SF magazine

At the beginning of the 20th century there was a massive flair in SF writing, as the government pushed a ‘save the country with science’ agenda. This was repeated in the 1980s, when the country was forward-thinking and had stable development. One of the masters of the genre was a chemistry graduate – “science was important“.

In between these two periods, the country was too unstable to have much luxury for SF, due to war, invasion, and the change to a republic. As a result, a lot of SF writing has strong social and political commentary, both local and global. In China, the level of censorship was often a strong indicator of how much good work was (is?) being produced.

The Cultural Revolution had a huge impact on SF plots. The genre was used as a way to reclaim history and allow the readership to come to terms with the past. War and revolution brutally severed the link between the ancient and modern periods of Chinese history, and SF tries to form a bridge between the two distinct cultures.

The early tradition of SF set stories in the wider world, either to avoid insulting the homeland directly or as a reflection of China as a bit-player in global politics. Modern SF is far more likely to be set in China itself, suggesting either less concern about the consequences of critique, a new confidence in China as a dominant player on the world stage, or a more immediate preoccupation with matters at home.

The 80s single-child generation is now nearing their thirties, and this is having a massive impact on both modern Chinese culture and SF themes. That generation is currently having to care for their parents and grandparents without any siblings to share the burden. At the same time, the strong sense of community that flourished in a state-owned culture has been nearly obliterated in the current privatised, corporate culture.

Similarly, many graduates are currently unemployed. There is increasing social stratification, leading to a huge gulf in living standards (particularly in cities, where slums are growing rapidly). The overpopulation crisis has led to jobs, schools and living space all under pressure. This is reflected in the current trend of ‘Angry Young Man’ stories (see below).

Themes and Characters


Super Robot Girl, a 2015 film

Near future tech is very popular, especially virtual reality and robotics. AS more factories and restaurants employ robots in reality, the Chinese accept them as a fact of life. SF stories often explore the positive aspects of this, rather than Asmiov’s more doomsday approach. Bio-engineering is also popular. Altering bodies to fit ideals or achieve immortality has been a constant throughout Chinese history. There is a cult of conformity, adjusting looks and lifestyles in order to fit pereived ideals, and near-future science can enable this desire.

Not much is said about characters that break the rules and are removed. The reader is left to draw assumptions, based on history and cultural expectations. This speaks volumes.

The ‘Angry Young Man’ is a popular modern archetype, railing against the system with a certain sense of naivety. This character type is generally written by post-80s writers, who play heavily on themes of consumerist greed, tech advancement and commercialism leading to near-future dystopia. These anti-heroes tend to act as a lens of ‘realism’ for readers, rather than doing anything to change the situation. They are commentators, not actors.

The past is idolised, and almost portrayed as otherworldly. This tension between old desires and history, and new innovation is very obvious in modern SF. There’s still a desire for mysticism in the age of robots.

Lost in Translation

So why hasn’t Chinese SF been translated into English? One reason is that there’s frequently a direct and strong critique of Western politics, which Western readers might well find unpalatable. The USA in particular is a big target for Chinese dystopian futures, which isn’t especially popular with the Americans.

Western readers also generally lack a strong understanding of the history and culture which informs Chinese SF plots and characters. That makes it harder to engage with the stories at the right level.

If you’re interested in trying some, however, the following three authors were recommended as good starting points: Lagrange Graveyard by Wang Jinkang, The Fish of Lijiang by Chen Qiufan, and A Hundred Ghosts Parade Tonight by Xia Jia.

Next week: using foreign languages in genre fiction.


Nine Worlds: A Whole New World


Economics, geography, infrastructure – it’s the background stuff that, like concrete breeze blocks, comes off as the dull, uninteresting graft of world creation. But what makes it come alive and make sense for the reader? What makes people care, and what makes a fictional culture viable?

Edward Cox, Al Robertson, Stephanie Saulter, Chris Wooding, Genevieve Cogman, James Barclay

I’ve talked about world building before. It’s one of my favourite parts of storytelling. This panel covered a fair amount of familiar ground. I’ll recount most of it but I won’t go into in depth discussion because I’ll just end up repeating myself. Also, for the most part the panellists didn’t offer tips so much as a list of questions the writer needs to ask themselves.

2011-MAR-Worldbuilding-vladstudio-300x228Getting started

Will your world be similar to something the reader is already familiar with – either based on an existing culture, or an AU version of history? Or will it be something completely new?

When setting up a culture, all the details should interconnect. It needs to be internally consistent. Remember that every detail will have ramifications on the rest. For example, the language in Germany and Japan fosters a culture of listening, because their grammar structure means sentences don’t make sense until the end.

Scarcity of resources is very important, and the work-arounds of your cultures to this scarcity is what makes the world different. Scarce resources impacts trade, economy, social structure and status, international relations, and so on. As one panellist said:

Writing fantasy worlds is about logistics.

Also, and this is a point Dr. Nick made in our panel later, don’t muck about with physics. If you’re going to break natural laws, break one, make it explicit, explain it, think about the ramifications, and then leave it alone.

The world as a character

Creating worlds is not that different from creating characters, and they are intrinsically linked as the characters should be a product of their environment. Similarly, both should have some kind of growth arc, especially if the plot focuses on momentous events.

One of the panellists suggested that your plot is an inevitable consequence of your world and character building. The world influences the character, the character reacts to the world, and that’s your plot. I’m not wholly on board with this idea, as it smacks a little of the plot progression also being inevitable and therefore predictable. It also raised questions in my mind about character agency and free will.

Place names is a good way to give character/flavour/insight to the local culture. It tells a lot about what people consider to be important or notable, without having to actually spell it out. One of the most valuable skills in epic fantasy, according to the panel, is learning how to transmit information without explaining it. It’s all about implication and evocation.

Think about clever, different and powerful ways to impact information, in a way readers don’t realise they’re being told about history or economics. Preferably a way that also advances the plot. For example, Stephanie Saulter had to explain that there was an economic slump in her culture, leading to a shortage of jobs, so she set a scene in a job centre where people were literally fighting over work.

To map or not to map?

The panel diverted into quite a long discussion about the value of providing maps for the reader. Several of them were quite strongly against publishing maps, on the basis that it locks the writer down into inflexibility. As Saulter (I think) said:

The author reserves the right to have a better idea.

One panellist suggested that, if a map is provided, people can just look at it. If there’s no map, the reader has to visualise the journey and that means they are immediately more intimately engaged with the fictional landscape.

On the other hand, maps can help avoid unnecessary exposition. When the characters need to get from Point A to Point B, they don’t need to have a clunky discussion about where Point B is or how to get there. The reader can just look at the map.

If you’re using a real place as your setting, make sure you use a map as a writing resource. If you get details wrong, knowledgeable readers will notice and immediately switch off.

And, one final point on the subject of providing maps for your readers: remember that maps can be in-character inaccurate! If you can have an unreliable narrator (of which, more on that in a few weeks), there’s no reason why you can’t have unreliable resources.

Next week: the development and role of SF&F.


If you do have a map, pay for a proper artist. The world isn’t really made of hexagons.


Nine Worlds: A Newbie’s Review


BMw-j2D4Last weekend I went to the Nine Worlds 2016 convention in London – a gathering run by geeks, for geeks, celebrating all things geek. Over the course of the next several weeks (possibly months, seriously, I took so many notes) I’ll be writing up the various sessions I attended. Before that happens, though, I have to do a certain amount of translating my own handwriting and I ran out of time this week. So instead, with apologies for the slight cheat, here’s an abridged version of the overall review that I was invited to submit to the British Fantasy Society journal.

I don’t go to many conventions. In fact, Nine Worlds 2016 was the second ever and is a different beast to the World Fantasy Con, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was also – I’ll be honest here – quietly freaking out because I’d volunteered in a fit of madness to speak on a panel for the first time. But more on that later.

I wandered along on Thursday evening to pick up my ticket, rather than stand in a time-sapping queue the following morning (Top tip #1: this is a Good Plan). The Novotel Hammersmith is in a convenient spot, transport-wise, but extensive scaffolding combined with a natural propensity to get lost ended up with me going in through the loading bay.

The badges had optional add-ons of pronoun stickers and coloured films indicating whether the wearer was interested in talking to strangers. I’ve never come across this before, and it set the tone of the Con for me. This was an event where the expression of, and respect for, self-identity was at the forefront – a tone which carried through into the programming, where there was a heavy focus on gender and identity issues in genre.

The programme was massive: nine tracks on everything from VR programming to kaiju-colouring for kids. There was also an agenda of social activities (including pirate knitting, which sounds wonderfully whimsical). There was stuff on films, TV, books, comics, fanfic, gaming, and creating props and costume.


Nine Worlds also welcomes  Architeuthidae

And, wow, the costumes. About 25% of the attendees were in costume and some of the skill on display was truly impressive. Everyone got five blue tokens with their badge which were, quite literally, tokens of appreciation to give out to people wearing stuff you liked. I’d given mine all out by 11am on Saturday. There was high-quality cosplay, roving packs of Ghostbusters, some gorgeous misc Steampunk, very short Stormtroopers (I’m guessing seven years old?), and a man with a giant squid on his back. I don’t know who you were, sir, nor what the squid was about, but I enjoyed the absurdity.

There are two main approaches to Cons, it seems: academic and social. Obviously you end up doing a bit of both, but for me the main focus was panels. If people like James Barclay, Jen Williams and Lisa Tuttle are willing to give me tips on how to improve my writing, you can be sure I’ll sit and take copious notes.

What I didn’t realise beforehand was that tracks at Nine Worlds fall on a spectrum ranging from full-on academic papers to geeks frothing about cool stuff with each other. This means there’s something for absolutely everybody, but it also means you need to work out which sessions cater to the way you want to engage. The Living Words and Academia & Humanities tracks were for people hoping to learn new things. Alternatively, Crafting & Creating and Fanworks were for those there to share their love of the weird and wonderful.

My agenda went out the window pretty quickly once I cottoned on. The first session I attended – a panel about world-building techniques – was an interesting revision of stuff I already knew but it didn’t have any revelatory moments. The second session, on the other hand, was a presentation on the history, development and cultural impact of Chinese SF&F which was fascinating and completely new information to me. The third was a series of short papers by academics on the use of foreign language in genre fiction, and I came away from that with a fresh understanding of the assumptions and associations readers can draw from, for example, Latin as opposed to Welsh. Don’t worry, this is all good stuff I’ll be sharing with you guys over the next couple of months.

I became more relaxed about my self-appointed schedule, which was a smart move. It gave me the leisure to continue fascinating conversations about literary constructs and megatextuality with people I’d just met, or had known at a distance for years but never actually sat down and talked to.

Top Tip #2: people at conventions like this are generally awesome. Yes, the idea of talking to a stranger can be terrifying to an introvert, but everyone’s there because they love the same things. I knew a total of two people, going in, and by Saturday morning there was a loose coalition of around eight of us that eddied around a couple of sofas in the bar. It gave us a home base to operate from – somewhere to go between sessions, people who would keep an eye out for me if needed, and a guarantee of good conversation which I could just slide into. In the hour before I was due to talk on a panel, there was also somewhere to sit and collect my thoughts, even bounce some of them off sympathetic listeners, and generally keep my calm at acceptable levels.

Funny story about the panel session: I’d volunteered to be involved in speaking in some capacity a while back (I’m currently on a ‘kick through the walls of my comfort zone’ drive) and, knowing that Dr. Nick was also going to the Con, I’d extracted a promise from him that he’d sit in the audience as emotional support. What I didn’t know was that he’d also volunteered. The day the organisers emailed me to say which panel they’d put me on, I got a text from him saying ‘I can’t be in the audience at your session.’ Quite by coincidence, the organisers had put us on the same panel. Which was great for me, since emotional support was therefore sitting on my immediate left, but a tad boring for him at times because he’s heard all my stories at least twice before.

Zeppelin-Luftschiff "Esperia"

Dr. Nick was speaking. Of COURSE we talked about zeppelins.

The panel was in one of the ‘geeking out about cool stuff’ streams and, frankly, I didn’t expect much of an audience. Who cares about how to use real-life knowledge of naval architecture, ancient history, cyber security or historical costume in running roleplay games? Quite a few people, as it turned out. I was very nervous but the moderator, Ash, had given us a list of questions in advance and started us off on some of the easier ones so I found my footing relatively fast. The conversation was largely anecdotal, rather than containing any ‘how to’ suggestions, but we got enough questions to run out of time and several people came to chat afterwards. I think I even managed to convert someone to Live Action Role Play, which I’ll take as a win.

So there you have it: what I did on my Nine Worlds holiday. I’ve come away with new friends, new ideas, an invitation to submit to an anthology and the British Fantasy Society journal, and a reading list two pages long. In fact, that reading list might earn its very own blog post, as the final one in my ‘here’s what I learned at Nine Worlds’ series.

Next week: what James Barclay said about world-building.🙂

Rolling For Metaphors: Lessons from Taylor Mali


Taylor Mali, American poet and English teacher, has come up with this fun little exercise. I’m on a bit of a poetry bent at the moment, so this appealed to me. He goes into a little too much detail in his video (thanks, Mr. Mali, I know how to fold cardboard into a cube with sellotape), but it’s worth watching. Let me know what metaphors you guys come up with!