Like the Plague

All writers know the advice to “avoid clichés like the plague.” Clichés are stultifying and dull. They weigh down your prose with predictability instead of seeding it with color and interest and panache. And when readers can guess what’s coming next — when an inner voice tells them “I’ve read that story before, I know this character already” — they feel that much less of an urge to keep reading.

We’re all tired of the cold fingers of fear squeezing someone’s heart, the shimmering teardrop forming at the corner of someone’s eye, the hard-nosed businessman closing in on his next deal, and the crinkle-eyed smile of the kindly grandmother. They’re probably accurate, but they also sound like autofill wrote the story.

Then there are phrases like “she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.” This is a whole different level of cliché — not only is it tired; it also doesn’t make sense. Do you know anyone in the world who actually pinched themselves to make sure they were awake? (And why would a pinching sensation prove they weren’t dreaming an especially vivid dream?)

Here in our subculture of the frum publishing world, we’ve developed uniquely frum brands of clichéd characters and scenarios. At the top of the list are the rabbi stroking his beard sagely, the rebbetzin wiping her hands on her apron while welcoming a bevy of guests, Josh the curious, potential BT and Yoni the struggling teen. (And don’t forget the seminary teacher turning her student’s life around while they make Shabbos together in her little kitchen.) It’s true that many scholars stroke their beards, but isn’t there some other gesture that can bring to life that scene in the inevitably seforim-lined study?