Synaesthesia

A fresh way of writing

I listened to a fascinating radio programme the other day. It was called ‘Only Artists’ and featured a conversation between the artist Katie Paterson and the writer David Mitchell. Click here if you want to hear it.

David Mitchell spoke about his difficulties speaking as a child as he stammered badly. He said he became adept at learning similes so he could choose the words that were easiest to say, and explained how that ability to select tone and register helped him greatly as a writer. But the thing that stopped me in my tracks was when he talked about the perennial writers’ problem of avoiding clichés, stating ‘the opposite of cliché is synaesthesia.’ The more I thought about that the more I realised he was right. When we write in predictable ways, observing the world through the appropriate senses, our prose (or poetry) can be flat or uninspiring. If we mix it up a little – using a different sense – the result can be powerful and fresh.

Many writers are synesthetic. I always think of days of the week as having colours – Sunday is green, Monday white, Tuesday blue, Wednesday red, Thursday pink, Friday orange and Saturday red. Is that weird? Probably! I’m in good company though. William Shakespeare was thought to have been synesthetic.  When he has Bottom in  A Midsummer Night’s Dream saying ‘I see a voice’ and ‘ I can hear my Thisby's face,’ it is meant to be comic, but it also gives us an insight into Shakespeare’s way of seeing the world.

When I was writing ‘The Oceans Between Us’ I searched for days to find a new way of writing a (very chaste!) love scene. How could you write about a couple kissing without resorting to clichés? I read tens of similar scenes in other novels and one that stood out avoided the usual sensations but linked abstract ideas to a physical act. That gave me an idea! In my scene Molly, a war widow who has lost her son and her memory, is kissed by Reggie, a West Indian man who rescues her from the ‘mental hospital’ where she’s been living. I wanted to convey the renewed sense of purpose he transmits along with the kiss. Here is my finished version:

She felt him smile in the darkness. The cologne scent became stronger. It mingled with the musky sweetness of his mouth as he leaned towards her. He tasted of hope and peace and new beginnings. She snuggled closer.

Of course no-one can taste of ‘hope’ or ‘peace’ but I hope that allowing Molly to absorb these abstract ideals through a physical sensation – a kind of synaesthesia – avoids the scene becoming clichéd.

Why don’t you try sense-mixing yourself in your writing? It certainly didn’t do David Mitchell any harm!