When Feelings Become Form: Writing with Metaphor

There is a moment—quiet, nearly invisible—when something inside you stirs: an ache, a joy, a longing. You hold it gently, and yet when you bring pen to paper (or fingers to keys) it remains elusive. How to translate that internal tide into words so real someone else might feel it too?

That’s where metaphor enters the frame. Metaphor doesn’t ask you to explain—rather, it invites you to show: “This feeling is that image,” it whispers.

In this article I invite you into a slow conversation with your feeling; into the practice of finding its image; into the gentle crafting of metaphor so that your rawest inner terrain might find form in words.

What is metaphor— and why it matters

Simply put, a metaphor is where you say one thing IS another—where something invisible becomes visible through comparison. For example: “My heart is a low‑hung cloud over a quiet city of breath.”

In the Australian teaching context, metaphor is defined as a literary technique where one thing (the tenor) is represented by another thing (the vehicle).

Why does it matter in writing what we feel? Because feelings often resist literal description—they shift, hover between words. A metaphor allows them safety and structure. It becomes a bridge—between your inner terrain and a form someone else can trace. It invites the reader into your world not by telling what you felt, but by letting them feel through your image.

Feeling first: tuning into the emotion behind the words

Before you craft the metaphor, simply pause. Breathe. Ask: What am I feeling right now? And then: Where in my body is it? What does it remind me of?

Maybe your chest pulses with restlessness. Maybe your belly holds ache. Maybe gratitude washes over you like light on water.

Journal for five minutes, prompt: “The feeling in my body right now is like…” Write without correction, just tracing the textures of the sensation.

Now: look outside yourself. Your surroundings becomes your laboratory. If your feeling were a horizon, a leaf, a gust of wind off the ocean—what would it be?

This rooting in place—not just ‘inside’, but ‘inside what I can see’—helps the metaphor find authenticity.

Finding your vehicle: choosing an image that honours the feeling

Having tuned into the feeling, your task is to pick the vehicle (the image) that can carry it. The image need not be grand—it might be simple, but it must feel right.

Ask: What object, scene or presence in nature echoes this feeling?Here are some examples:

• If the feeling is isolation: perhaps an empty veranda under cicada dusk, the sound trailing off.
• If it is anticipation: maybe a kite pulled by the wind across the southern sky.

Pro tip: Avoid the first metaphor that comes to mind—it’s probably been used. Go deeper, ask more, until the image surprises you. As one Jericho Writers writing‑guide notes, “Go with the second or third metaphor you think of.”

This image becomes the vessel for your feeling—as if your internal wave now has a shoreline to crash upon.

Writing the metaphor: shape the sentence that carries the feeling

Now you have: the feeling + the vehicle. You marry them. You craft the sentence. Structure: The feeling is the image. For instance:

• Direct: “My heart is a storm‑cloud.”
• Refined: “My heart, a low‑hung rain‑cloud, waited above the quiet city of my breath.”

Pro tip: Use vivid language. Make sure your reader can see/hear/feel the image. Adazing’s guide to crafting impactful metaphors offers step‑by‑step advice: identify the concept, choose two disparate elements, then make the connection clear. After writing your metaphor, read aloud. Does it carry the feeling? Or does it trip? Adjust until the image and feeling move together.

Balancing metaphor and voice: when to let it breathe and when to step back

Metaphors are powerful—but too many can bury the heart of the piece. They’re tools, not the whole house. Here are some tips:

• Jericho Writers reminds writers to use metaphors sparingly. Let them land, then let the rest of your prose be grounded.
• Alternate between metaphorical language and concrete detail. Example: after your metaphor, perhaps describe the tangible humidity of dusk, the sound of magpies, the smell of salt.
• Ask yourself: Does this image serve the feeling, or distract from it? If it distracts, simplify.
  In the voice you’re writing in—intimate, reflective, soul‑connected—let metaphor invite the reader, not overwhelm them.

Metaphor in the Queensland context: grounding your writing in place

Here in Queensland and especially around the Moreton Bay region, we’re rich with physical world‑metaphor material. The tide on the bay: dependable, soft, sometimes insistent. The forest of gum‑trees: tall, inviting, ancient. Humidity that makes the air visible. Dusk that hangs in purple pause.

Walk outside. Listen. Watch the movement of clouds, the bending of trees. Let your feeling mirror the external world. Writing what you feel becomes more vivid when you feel in place.

Invite the landscape into your metaphor: maybe the feeling inside me is like the sunlight on wattle‑pollen in early spring, or the ache settles like the brackish breath of the estuary at dawn.

Next‑step: turning metaphor into meaning and movement

Your metaphor defines the feeling—now ask: What does that image demand of me? What invitation does it hold?

Here are some journal prompts to help:

• If my feeling is this image, what does that image want?
• What might happen because the image is here?

Eventually, ask: What will I do? Because writing what you feel is not just catharsis—it’s movement. The metaphor can reveal insight, action, connection.

Share your metaphor. Post it in your blog. Read it aloud. Let it sit. See how the page responds. See how your inner world begins to ripple out.

At the heart of it, writing what you feel is not always easy. It requires tenderness, listening, boldness. And metaphors—just the right ones—invite your feeling into form without flattening it.

Here’s a final prompt for you this week: identify a feeling you’ve carried. Find its image. Write the metaphor. Then observe: how does the page hold your feeling?

May your words become vessels of soul‑connection. Craft them gently, lovingly, and let your voice—unique, Australian, anchored—carry the invisible into light.