How To Create Layered Metaphors In Fiction

I love metaphors. They’re fun, interesting, and at times, ridiculous.

They’re also an extremely useful communication tool, across most forms of communication.

As an aside, it’s important to note that not everyone understands metaphors—and that’s okay! As the communicator, it’s our responsibility to adjust our technique to the listener/reader. But, in many cases, metaphors can communicate a depth and complexity of ideas inaccessible through other communicative tools.

The best is when you are able to create layered metaphors that work on multiple levels and in a variety of ways.

What Are Layered Metaphors?

Let’s start with the basics.

A metaphor is when you compare two things that aren’t actually alike to show a shared concept or idea, but without using "like" or "as." (If you use “like” or “as,” it’s a simile.)

For example, you could say "Big Swede’s emotions were a flock of wild ducks," to help paint a vivid picture of the constant change and unpredictability of Big Swede’s emotions.

A layered metaphor is more than just a one-off comparison like, “His mind was a storm.” It’s a metaphor that builds over time, adding new meanings as the story progresses.

Side note: Big Swede is actually a duck! I don’t know if that makes this more or less of a metaphor. A duck’s emotions… are like a flock of ducks!

Think of it as a recurring symbol or motif that gains more depth every time it shows up, connecting different elements of your story.

Layered metaphors aren’t just about describing something; they’re about showing how that metaphor evolves alongside your characters, plot, or world. When done well, they can make your story feel richer and more cohesive.

For example, if you initially describe Big Swede’s emotions as “a flock of wild ducks,” and then later on, add, “The flock grew restless, scattering in every direction as the storm of doubt rolled in,” then that indicates that Big Swede’s already chaotic emotions are in upheaval.

And if you finish the story with “The ducks took flight, soaring into the peaceful, open sky,” to indicate some resolution of said emotions, then you’ve a.) given Big Swede’s emotions an arc, as well as b.) added complexity to the story with a layered metaphor.

Examples of Layered Metaphors

I hate it when posts on how-to topics don’t include examples. And not just one or two, but a bunch, to get a clear idea of what the writer is talking about.

So let’s have some examples.

I’ve structured these in three parts, but your story could refer to this metaphor repeatedly throughout the narrative. It doesn’t have to have any kind of movement or change if you don’t want, and in fact, if you’re using a flat character arc, you could easily do that by having a flat layered metaphor woven throughout your story.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

How about a few examples:

1. His resolve was a sturdy oak with roots that sank deep into the soil.

   1. When the wind came, the branches bent, but the tree stood strong.

   2. When the sun came, new growth sprouted.

2. Her focus was a hive of bees.

   1. As the day wore on, the bees burst into a frantic cloud.

   2. When the sun set, the swarm vanished into the night.

3. His curiosity flickered like a lamp, sometimes bright and sometimes bored.

   1. The more questions he asked, the brighter the lamp grew.

   2. The lamp had finally grown so bright, it cast light on [insert thing he’d been looking for.]

4. Their relationship was an elevator, rising steadily with every shared moment.

   1. But at times, it stalled between floors, the doors stuck shut, and no one knew how to get it moving again.

   2. Eventually, they learned to press the right buttons, guiding the elevator to new heights without fear of falling.

Okay, some of those are kind of campy, but hopefully, you get the gist.

What’s the difference between a layered metaphor and an extended metaphor?

You may have heard the term “extended metaphor.” And it might seem like a layered metaphor is, in fact, extended. So what’s the difference?

A layered metaphor is one that builds and evolves throughout the story, gaining new meanings and depth as the narrative progresses. It often reflects changes in characters, themes, or settings, with each new "layer" adding complexity to the original comparison.

For example, a metaphor that starts as a calm lake representing peace might later transform into stormy waves, symbolizing internal conflict.

An extended metaphor, on the other hand, is a single metaphor that is stretched out and elaborated on over a longer passage or even an entire story. It consistently refers back to the same core comparison, offering different facets of that one idea without necessarily changing the meaning.

For instance, an extended metaphor might describe a character’s life as a "journey" throughout the entire story, with each new chapter emphasizing the same metaphor through various aspects of travel, such as roadblocks, detours, and destinations.

In short, a layered metaphor grows and shifts meaning over time, while an extended metaphor stays focused on one comparison.

How to use layered metaphors

Layered metaphors are super versatile and can be woven into pretty much any part of your story.

Whether you’re developing characters, adding some subtext, building your world, or structuring your plot, layered metaphors can give everything a little extra depth. Let’s break it down into a few key areas where you can really make them work.

Layered Metaphors in Character Development

Characters grow and struggle throughout their narrative arc. And layered metaphors are a great way to demonstrate this shift.

For example, maybe you start with a character whose resolve is "a sturdy wall," but as things get tough, that wall starts "cracking," and by the end, it’s "crumbled to dust."

The metaphor evolves as they do, giving readers a sense of their internal journey without having to spell everything out.

It’s a great way to show rather than tell, and it helps make a character’s emotional arc feel more visual and impactful.

It’s also a great tool to reinforce unchanging elements of that character’s personality. If they are a stubborn goat, then you can use goat imagery throughout the entire story, saying things like “She butted heads” or “She really knew how to get his goat,” or “An old goat will never learn to dance.”

Certainly it can be overused, but at the right balance, it’s a great way to illustrate character and character development.

Layered Metaphors to Enhance Subtext

Metaphors are also perfect for adding some subtext to your story—those underlying emotions or tensions that you don’t want to say outright. By layering metaphors, you can hint at deeper stuff without being too obvious.

For example, maybe there’s "a glass wall" between two characters, suggesting they’re keeping things from each other. As the story goes on and their relationship gets more strained, that wall "gets thicker," and eventually, it "starts to crack."

You never have to directly say they’re drifting apart—the metaphor does that work for you.

If you want to take it further, you can use other types of barriers between other characters. Maybe they’re connected by cement or by nothing, by a thread, for example. And again, this can help do the heavy lifting of indicating the complexity of the relationship between two characters.

Layered Metaphors For Worldbuilding

When it comes to worldbuilding, especially in fantasy or sci-fi, layered metaphors can add texture and make everything feel more connected. They can help reflect the bigger themes of your world and add a sense of cohesion—or lack thereof.

Say your story takes place in a city built on a cliffside and its in the middle of a war or trying to free itself from some kind of autocratic ruler. You could describe the city as "clinging to life," and as things get more dangerous, the city could be "dangling by a thread." The metaphor doesn’t just describe the physical space, but also reflects what’s going on in the world and with the people who live there.

Alternatively, bug metaphors could be fun for a city that’s set on a cliff. Maybe you describe the city as a beetle, clinging to a rock. Or trying to take flight. Or perhaps the city is infested with corruption. Or the city is crawling with termites, eating it from the inside out.

Lotta options here.

Regardless of what you choose, layered metaphors like this can make your world feel more alive and meaningful without overloading your reader with exposition.

Layered Metaphors in Plot Structure

This might be my favorite one. Because weaving a layered metaphor throughout a plot can create a beautiful support system for structuring concepts, movement, growth, stagnancy, and any other concept you’re playing with in your story.

You can introduce a metaphor early on and allow it to grow and change as the story progresses, creating a symbolic thread that adds depth and cohesion to the narrative.

The key is to think of the metaphor as part of the plot’s backbone, something that subtly mirrors the rising tension, conflict, or resolution in your story.

Here’s how you can do it:

1. Introduce the metaphor early: Start by planting the metaphor in the beginning, even in a subtle way. For instance, let’s say your story is about a character who’s slowly losing control over their life. You could introduce the metaphor of "walking a tightrope" early on, where everything seems balanced but fragile.

2. Let the metaphor evolve with the story: As the plot progresses and the character faces more challenges, that metaphorical tightrope can start to "fray" or "sag." Or maybe they stumble and lose their balance. Remember, a tightrope isn’t just a tightrope—it’s part of a circus, there’s a net underneath, a crowd watching. Each of these elements can be utilized within the layered metaphor as the stakes rise and the story moves through its various stages. Maybe the character’s grip on the rope becomes more desperate, or the rope starts "swinging wildly" as external forces add to the chaos. The circus is your oyster.

3. Bring it to the climax: By the time you reach the story’s peak—whether it’s a confrontation, a decision, or a moment of realization—the metaphor should be fully developed. In our tightrope example, the moment of crisis could be when "the rope snaps," sending the character plunging into uncertainty. Or if the rope doesn’t snap, maybe the character loses their balance. Or they hit the net. This can mirror the plot’s turning point, where everything changes, and the character has to face the consequences of their choices or actions.

4. Resolve or complicate the metaphor in the conclusion: After the climax, the metaphor can either reach a resolution or take on a new meaning. If the character manages to regain control, you might describe them "finding solid ground" after their fall, reflecting the resolution of their journey. Alternatively, if the character’s struggles continue or evolve into something new, the metaphor could shift—maybe they’re now "climbing a cliff," a new challenge ahead of them, but with the strength to face it.

The reason I love this concept so much is because there’s so much possibility inherent in it. You can align your story with anything you want and it will affect the tone, the vibe, the style, and more.

It also gives readers something familiar to latch onto, creating a sense of progression without the need to explain every internal or external shift.

Using layered metaphors in plot structure is especially useful when you want to emphasize themes or emotional arcs without being too direct. The metaphor acts as a stand-in for more abstract concepts like control, loss, or transformation, allowing you to show rather than tell.

Plus, when a metaphor is resolved alongside the plot, it gives the reader a sense of satisfaction, like seeing all the puzzle pieces come together.

Tying it all together

Creating layered metaphors in fiction is about adding depth and complexity while keeping your readers engaged, not overwhelmed.

Whether you’re using them to shape your characters’ journeys, add hidden meaning through subtext, build a more immersive world, or even tie your plot together, layered metaphors can elevate your storytelling.

They provide a subtle, yet powerful way to give your writing texture and leave lasting impressions.

So, if you want to take your metaphors to the next level, start layering them into your characters, plot, and world. With a little practice, you’ll create metaphors that not only add richness to your story but also stick with readers long after they’ve turned the last page.

Giant Mice & Lava Ice: Designing Unique Fantasy Settings

When I think about fantasy settings, I often notice that a lot of stories tend to stick to a few familiar environments: lush, forested areas filled with magical mushroom rings, castles, and cascading waterfalls; or barren, arid landscapes, like fields of volcanic slate and dusty deserts.

A mysterious stone building or castle amid a green deciduous forest with thick ferns and straight-trunked white pines.

And don’t get me wrong—I’m guilty of it too. I love trees, so naturally, a lot of my fantasy scenes unfold in expansive forests and arboreal cities. But there’s so much more possibility out there, and I often find myself dreaming of other ways to build settings that feel fresh, engaging, and utterly different.

I remember visiting the Baltimore Conservatory and being captivated by the wide range of plants there. Some of them looked almost alien—twisting, angular, bizarre shapes that seemed more at home on another planet than here on Earth. I couldn’t help but imagine that they were sentient, whispering secrets to each other when no one was looking.

I walked around that conservatory with potential stories spinning in my head about these plants as alien species, capable of thought and communication. But even outside of sci-fi, these plants could easily be the foundation for a unique fantasy landscape, something that’s different from what we typically see.

While my own fantasy writing isn’t always breaking new ground in this regard, I’ve started to collect ideas for creating settings that are more unexpected. Here are a few things I consider when crafting new and unique fantasy locations.

1. Make Things Big or Small

One way to immediately create a sense of wonder is by playing with scale.

Those giant desert plants at the conservatory—what if they were the size of a house? Or grew on stalks like trees, reaching toward the sky?

Or think of Gulliver in Lilliput!

What if my character encounters a tiny fairy who leads them to a vast ocean, only for it to turn out to be nothing more than a medium-sized cow pond?

.Shifting size and perspective can transform ordinary landscapes into something extraordinary.

2. Pull From the Real World

There’s no shortage of bizarre and stunning geography in our own world. Sometimes I look at photos of real places and think, “How is this not already in a fantasy novel?” Here are some real-world phenomena that could inspire amazing settings:

Rio Tinto, Spain: A river with bright red water due to its high acidity and iron content.

The Danakil Depression, Ethiopia: A surreal landscape of sulfur springs, lava lakes, and salt flats.

The Giant’s Causeway, Northern Ireland: Thousands of interlocking basalt columns that look like stepping stones built by giants.

Socotra Island, Yemen: Home to dragon’s blood trees that look like giant umbrellas, with bright red sap that seems otherworldly.

The Fly Geyser, Nevada, USA: A multi-colored, constantly evolving geothermal geyser that looks like something out of a dream.

These places are proof that you don’t have to stretch too far to find inspiration. The real world is packed with strange, beautiful, and outright bizarre places that can be the jumping-off point for an incredible fantasy setting.

3. Flip Stuff Upside Down

One of my favorite tricks is to turn things upside down—both literally and figuratively.

Imagine if trees grew with their crowns on the ground and trunks in the sky, drawing water not from roots in the earth but from clouds above. Or what if the ocean floated overhead instead of lying on the ground, with fish swimming in the sky and ships sailing on air? You can take this concept and twist it in countless ways:

What if mountains hung down from the sky like stalactites?

Picture a city where people walk on the ceiling and gravity doesn’t pull the way we expect it to.

A waterfall that flows upward into the sky instead of down.

These shifts can disorient and excite the reader, giving them a world that’s truly unlike anything they’ve seen before.

4. Use Sensory Details in New Ways

When building fantasy settings, I always remind myself that sensory details don’t have to match our expectations.

Maybe the ocean smells like fresh-baked donuts instead of salty brine.

Flowers could smell like burnt rubber, water might always be warm, or rocks might feel like squishy stress balls underfoot.

These small tweaks can make the world feel vivid and alive, sparking the reader’s imagination in unexpected ways.

5. Connect Your Features

For me, creating unique settings is also about ensuring that each element of the landscape feels interconnected. A lava river might link a mountain to a lake, with strange plants growing along its molten banks.

A transport ship sitting in the Baltimore harbor with rays of sun cascading down from the clouds above.

I like to think about how people might navigate these extreme environments—maybe they’ve developed special boats to sail the lava, or suits to protect them from sulfuric steam. Maybe their species has evolved differently from a human, so they can bear the extremes in with a different level of tolerance.

It’s not just about the landscape itself but about how the terrain shapes the lives, cultures, and technologies of the people who inhabit it.

6. Keep Some Familiarity

Even when I’m creating something wild and new, I think it’s crucial to balance the strange with the familiar. Not everything needs to be unique; sometimes, a few touches of normalcy—a blue sky, ordinary rocks, or just plain grass—can help anchor the reader, allowing the truly imaginative aspects to stand out.

I want them to feel immersed in the world, not drowning in it.

It’s a balancing act, ensuring that the world feels immersive without becoming overwhelming.

7. Consider the Purpose of The Setting

Finally, I always keep in mind that not every scene needs to have a jaw-droppingly unique setting.

Sometimes, the plot, characters, or theme need to take center stage, and in those moments, a simple, relatable environment can be the best choice.

save the more elaborate settings for moments when I really want the reader to stop and savor the world.

So, whether I’m writing in a forest, a lava river, or an upside-down city, I’m always thinking about how to create a setting that’s not just a backdrop but an integral, exciting part of the story.

Fantasy worlds can be anything we want them to be, and I love exploring every strange, beautiful possibility.

Off the coast of Alaska, a single boat on a calm ocean with layers and layers of massive mountain ranges stretching into the distance. The sky is orange the landscape is dark gray, black, and blues.

Magic System Development the Ariele Way

Something you might not know about me is that, despite having written more science fiction novels than fantasy, I’ve always been a bigger fantasy reader at heart.

Map of Vantera, the kingdom in the Sablewood series by Ariele Sieling.

Fantasy worlds, with their epic quests and magical creatures, have always captured my imagination. But when it came to writing my own stories, I was hesitant, particularly when it came to developing a unique magic system.

I found the idea of designing magic rules for fantasy intimidating. There’s so much out there already—systems based on elements like fire, water, earth, and air; those that rely on spell work or wands; or even magic that’s rooted in ancient languages and incantations. And don’t get me started on the magical creatures! It all felt a bit overwhelming, so I stuck to sci-fi for a long time.

I didn’t make a serious attempt at a fantasy novel until I had already written over twenty books. In hindsight, this was probably a good move because it gave me time to hone my basic writing skills before jumping into the deep end of magic world-building.

But when I finally dove into fantasy, I realized a few things: first, developing a magic system wasn’t as hard as I thought. Second, it wasn’t nearly as rigid as I had assumed. And third, I didn’t have to follow anyone else’s rules.

I could do it all my own way.

Starting Small with Magic System Development

The first thing I learned is that the easiest way to approach magic system development for me—especially because I’m a pantser and typically write by the seat of my pants—was to start with just one feature of the system.

Monstrous creature in a magical fantasy world.

Maybe a type of spell, a magical ability, or even a unique magical creature—but the key for me was to start small. Then, that single feature would become the seed the rest of the magic grew from.

I let it interact with my characters and the world naturally, observing how it influenced everything around it. True to pantser form.

As I wrote, I took notes, piecing together the rules and laws of the magic system as I went. I didn’t worry about getting it perfect from the start because, honestly, nothing kills creativity faster than overplanning.

I kept it loose, and whenever things seemed to go too far, I’d simply give the magic some limitations. And if it felt too limiting? I’d think of it like chemistry and add a “catalyst” to break my own rules.

And it didn’t take long for the shape of the magic system to develop in front of me.

Drawing Inspiration from Other Fantasy Works

Reading tons of fantasy also gave me a solid head start.

I was familiar with common magic system types: the elemental magic systems, spellcasting through wands, and more, because I’d spent my childhood, teenage, and adult years devouring fantasy literature.

I’ve read everything from classics like Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Terry Pratchett, and Madeline l’Engle, to works more contemporary to my youth like Neil Gaiman, Cordelia Funke, Tamora Pierce, Gail Carson Levine, Diana Wynne Jones, and yes the now-disgraced JK Rowling—just to name a few. I’ve continued to read as well, trying to broaden my scope to include historical literature, such as Geoffrey of Monmouth (fantasy or history?), modern authors like N.K Jemison, Marissa Meyer, and Sarah J Maass. And I’ve read myriad indie authors who have written everything from fairytale retellings to high fantasy to fantasy romance to cozy fantasy to completely new and unique fantasy that’s completely different than anything I’d read before.

A fantasy scene with a woman gazing up at a looming castle deep in a dark forest.

Having this background knowledge made it easier for me to recognize when I was treading familiar ground and when I was exploring something new. I was constantly on the lookout for new angles and ways to develop magic that I hadn’t seen before—at least, not in the books I’d read.

At the same time, I was familiar with the patterns and the tropes within the genre, so I could attempt to both give my reader something new and interesting, while also blending in some of the tried and true storytelling elements that everyone loves so much.

Lessons Learned from Magic System Development

One thing that stood out to me during this process was how much character interactions with magic reveal about both the magic system and the world. How my characters reacted to, used, or felt about the magic told me a lot about its place in my story.

Another that starting small made it easier for me, yes, But it also had the added benefit of making my story stronger. Keeping the magic system simple at first and then expanding it naturally through the characters’ experiences created inherent conflict and tension that strengthened the narrative, offering layers and complexity I hadn’t even considered when I first started drafting the tale.

Overall, I have found writing fantasy and developing these magical systems incredibly rewarding.

I’ve never enjoyed writing a series as much as I have with my fantasy works like Aria's Song (future fantasy), Sablewood (high fantasy), and Ariele's Fairy Tales (a collection of original fairy tales). These stories have allowed me to explore magic in ways I never thought possible, and I can’t wait to continue delving into this genre.

My newest book, Wilt & Wane, is going to be released in hardcover shortly, and I’m deep into the edits for book 2, so stay tuned! There is more on the way and I’m loving every second of it.

Writing Tips (Sometimes): What If I Do It Wrong?

You’ve probably heard a few horror stories in the last few years of writers getting called out for various choices they made in their stories. Words like “sexist” and “racist” and “problematic” get thrown around like rice at a wedding. Authors get canceled. Doxed. They quit writing.

In nearly every instance I’ve seen, the responses are severely overblown. Writers are human and they f up. There are very few instances in which doxing, canceling, or public humiliation is necessary. Most writers don’t mean to, and if they did, well, they probably don’t give a shit what you think of them. And their families certainly don't deserve the impact of mob justice.

Recently, I received my first review in which someone disagreed with me ideologically.

It was three stars and it read:

“Well written, but DROP THE WOKE PRONOUN GARBAGE!🤮🤮🤮🤮 That is what kept it from getting a five star.”
(You can find this review on Google Play.)

My reaction? To laugh.

I’m going to keep up my woke pronoun garbage because I think it’s important. It normalizes treating people with respect.

Now, a review like this is of course far from being doxed or publicly humiliated. And while I’ve made the choice to keep writing and publishing despite this potential risk, it doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally become afraid that something terrible could happen, if someone took enough offense to my work that they roused a mob to punish me for the things I wrote.

It’s a real fear. And I don’t think it’s completely unreasonable.

It’s also a common fear. I’ve been to a lot of workshops on writing diverse characters, and this fear inevitably gets brought up. 

“What if I do it wrong?”

Most facilitators carefully sidestep this question. But I have some thoughts.

Thought #1:

You might do it wrong.

But I think part of a writer is being brave. It means recognizing that we are making our art and our ideas out available for other people to read and consume. And sometimes we have to push forward, even when it scares us. So be brave.

Thought #2:

If you’re afraid of something you’re writing, then why are you writing it? This is a super important question. If you’re white and want to write Black characters, why? If you’re able-bodied and want to include disabled characters, why? If you’re cisgender and want to write transgender characters, why?

Then assess your reasons.

A few things to be wary of:

• Saviorism. Feeling like you are responsible for “saving” or “rescuing” people who have less privilege than you is dangerous and problematic.

• Obligation. If you are doing it because you feel like you have to, this is inauthentic and you risk writing characters and situations that do more harm than good.

• Moral superiority. If you are doing it because it makes you feel like a better person… you’re probably not the better person you think you are.

A few good reasons:

• Because you want to. Maybe you think a particular identity or ideology is interesting and you want to learn about it. Cool. Do your research. Explore the concept. Learn.

• Because it’s accurate. People are diverse! Ideas are complex! Black & white isn’t real! If you want your world and your characters to reflect that, awesome. Do your research. Write inclusively.

• Because you give a shit about making a difference. Great. Do your research. Make a difference—but make sure you’re making the difference you want to make!

Thought #3:

Build a process. If you think that your reasons for exploring difficult and diverse perspectives and concepts are authentic and good, then the next step is to build a process. Research. Learn. Explore. Revise. Be willing to take feedback. Be willing to change your mind about things.

Build a process to help you ensure you've taken the necessary steps to the best job you can. And, if it still ends up wrong, be willing to apologize honestly and with true remorse.

I remember (this is embarrassing to admit, btw; please forgive me for my past idiocy) a few years ago, I was working really hard to expand the representation of my characters. And I wanted to start including non-binary and trans characters in my work. I didn’t really know how, so I created a character who was referred to as he/him but had a female name. Unfortunately, this character was a sort of villain. When someone pointed this out to me, I changed it immediately. Their point was that I had unintentionally framed trans people as “bad” through this representation. Which was exactly the opposite of what I wanted.

So I fixed it. That character became cisgender and I found other ways to include positive representations of nonbinary and trans characters in my work.

Luckily, I hadn’t published yet, so fixing it was easy, and I didn’t perpetuate the harm I could have.

If you mess up, fix it! And listen when others tell you their thoughts. You don’t have to agree, but hearing them will help you expand your understanding of the world.

Which leads me to my last thought (well, technically, I have a million more thoughts, but I think this email is long enough lol).

Thought #4:

Don’t be a silo.

One of the biggest traps, in my opinion, is never bothering to seek opinions or learn about the experiences of others.

Read widely. Meet new people, IRL and virtually. Think about stuff. Take online classes. Learn. However learning works for you. And not just stuff you’re already interested in, but try to find ways to expand your knowledge of the world and others.

The more we understand about the way other people live and experience the world, the more we know about the wide range of thoughts and beliefs held by others, the better our characters, situations, concepts, and representations can be.

Don’t be afraid. You got this.

Writing Tips (Sometimes): Sussing Out Subtext

Have you ever heard the word “subtext” in the context of a story? It’s one of those words people like to throw around when they’re talking about literature, but not everyone understands it the same way.

When I think of subtext, I think of it as an underlying message or theme—something that isn’t explicitly stated in the text or by the narrator, but that hovers around the edges as a potential conclusion based on the things that are explicitly stated.

There are lots of ways to include subtext in a narrative, but first I want to point out that some people see subtext whether it’s there or not. They are always drawing conclusions from things—even conclusions that you didn’t intend or disagree with!

This is fine! It’s part of the process of writing and reading. You write a story and bring your perspective into the creation. But when a reader consumes a story, they bring their perspective to the story as well. And sometimes this means reading into things in a way you didn’t intend.

But say you want to include subtext, and you want it to be pretty clear to the reader what you mean, even if you didn’t say it outright. How do you do that?

Focus on the gaps.

The empty parts of the story are key to subtext.

• What does the character not say?

• What does the narrator avoid mentioning?

• What do you know about the story that the reader doesn’t?

There are a lot of specific techniques to achieve this. For example, symbolism. Maybe the color red (or any color) is frequently incorporated into the story. The character is constantly noticing red things—roses, shirts, barns, bricks. Red represents anger and passion. None of the characters or the narrator says it outright, but repetition a specific symbol can help direct the reader’s attention toward a concept that isn’t actually stated.

Use the setting. 

People associate ideas, moods, and all kinds of things with the weather, making it a great way to add implicit ideas to your narrative.

For example, perhaps you have a cheerful, optimistic character, but the weather is always bad. Snow, rain, storms are constantly happening in every scene. This creates a contrast, that perhaps the cheerful optimism showed by the character are less true than the character thinks.

This is also a great way to...

Incorporate an unreliable narrator.

An unreliable narrator is a narrator who is lying or uninformed about the truth of what’s going on. Unreliable narrators can be extremely engaging for readers, who may notice inconsistencies or irregularities that the main character doesn’t notice or ignores. This is a tricky tactic, but when well done, can create an interesting and engaging story. Famous examples of unreliable narrators include American Psycho, Fight Club, and Lolita.

Let silence fall.

While there are many more ways to weave subtext into your narrative, the last one I am going to mention is silence. 

In music, silence (or rests) is just as important as sound. It’s is the balance of emptiness and fullness that makes music—after all, no one likes to listen to incessant noise or endless nothing. It’s the same in storytelling: what is not said is just as important is what is said. 

What aren’t your characters saying? What do they avoid thinking about? What is your narrator neglecting to mention?

If you want to use subtext in your tale, remember that you have to trust your reader to pick up on them. It’s okay if they don’t, but it’s important to not be too overt or obvious. Otherwise, it’d just be text, and not subtext. 😄

Sometimes, it’s better to leave things unsaid.