Write About Cliches? Sure, When The Cows Come Home

Write about cliches, the editors said.

When hell freezes over, I thought. When pigs fly. I'd rather try to squeeze blood out of a turnip. It's the kind of assignment that makes me feel as if my back's against the wall and there's no tomorrow. As if I'm looking for a needle in a haystack, up the creek without a paddle, caught between a rock and a hard place, skating on thin ice, barking up the wrong tree and have bitten off more than I could chew. The whole shebang. Get my drift?

Please forgive me if this purple prose sounds like a broken record. But, really, I need to write a story on cliches like I need a hole in my head. It's just not my cup of tea. I have other fish to fry, thanks. Deep down, I really hate cliches. Avoid 'em like the plague.

Plus, my understanding of cliches is as clear as mud. I can't make heads nor tails out of which ones are the real deals and which are not worth a red cent or a plugged nickel. You'd think they would stick out like a sore thumb, but to me, they all seem like six of one, half-dozen of the other.

Trying to comprehend cliches makes me feel like climbing the wall or throwing in the towel. They're as confusing as a wild goose chase to where the grass is always greener on the other side of the tip of the iceberg. Some examples: Are you supposed to stop and smell the coffee or wake up and smell the roses? What's the difference between hog heaven, going whole hog or having a pig in a poke? If you have your ducks in a row, does water still flow off their backs? If you drag a wild horse of a different color to water, being careful not to change in midstream, can you make him drink?

Of course, the editors have turned a deaf ear to my whining. Easy to do when you work in an ivory tower and have grand delusions about the pen being mightier than the sword. However, they made it crystal clear that they'll support me through thick and thin, although I take those words with a grain of salt.

The story will be a piece of cake, easy as pie, the greatest thing since sliced bread, they say. More fun than a barrel of monkeys. You'll be in seventh heaven. Happy as a lark, a clam or a pig in slop. Just put your nose to the grindstone and place your best foot forward. Give it 110 percent. It'll be like taking candy from a baby.

There's no choice, really. I know I'm going to have to suck it up, dig in my heels and give it the old college try. But you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll be scared to death every inch of the way. It goes without saying that sometimes, when you take the bull by the horns, you get stabbed in the back. Oh well, if the story goes over like a lead balloon, it'll just prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was a square peg in a round hole. And that I couldn't get the monkey off my back.

That said, I'm still prepared to give it my best shot. I promise to leave no stone unturned, rolling or otherwise. It's time to get down to brass tacks, take the gloves off. Hey, every Tom, Dick and Harry speaks in cliches, anyway. They're a dime a dozen, more of 'em out there than you can shake a stick at. Should be a breeze, a walk in the park. It's made in the shade.

Now, it's just a matter of, by hook or by crook, narrowing the story's focus. Because, let's face it, it would take the patience of Job to write the book on cliches - you know, the whole shootin' match. But since necessity is the mother of invention, it's time to shift into high gear.

Maybe I should just focus on weather-related cliches: the calm before the storm, which includes a bolt from the blue from every cloud that has a silver lining.

Or food. But that would be like putting all your eggs in one basket or comparing apples and oranges until you bring home the bacon and don't spill the beans.

Or classics, the kinds of cliches that hit the nail on the head, are par for the course and make you want to party till the cows come home.

Whatever. All I know is that when it's over and done, I'll thank my lucky stars that I can say: Been there, done that. And last but not least, don't forget: It ain't over till it's over. Or is that until the fat lady sings?