Here’s a confession: I pine for purple prose.
Sometimes.
The first time I heard the claim that some writing was “purple” was in an undergraduate creative writing workshop. A peer of mine had written a short horror story brimming with gruesome details and lengthy character descriptions.
Another writer had raised their hand during feedback time and proceeded to call out some sections of the piece as purple. The disdain behind the comment was subtle but evident. Our professor took a moment to explain what purple prose was to all of us, and like baby birds, we opened our mouths to this new knowledge. And I was excited to regurgitate this piece of advice to other writers in the future.
Purple pose refers to elaborate, perhaps even “flowery” language that takes away from a story. It can be obtrusive, in-your-face, and downright annoying. I’m in no way defending this type of writing which tries to disguise its own laziness with unnecessary details. Some writers truly do get off on puking up as many adverbs and adjectives as they can — and that’s just not for me, and often doesn’t make for an enjoyable read.
But what if we took some of the shame away from purple prose? Because younger me heard that totally valid comment about someone else’s writing and immediately flew into panic mode. Was my own character description simply too much? Should realism á la Robinson Crusoe be my starting point rather than the heady stream of consciousness of To The Lighthouse?
I think one of the biggest roadblocks to writing is doubt. So, why make it worse for yourself? If purple prose gets you writing, then get into purple prose.
Maybe it’s the feminist and queer theorist in me that’s shouting for purple prose to be avenged — because self-reflexivity, fractured subjectivity, and the impossibility of binaries get me so excited. It means I don’t believe in single meanings. With this kind of framework, I see being inspired by purple prose as a launching point, rather than treating it as some kind of literary grenade, as super cool.
Because who doesn’t love a juicy sentence, or two, or three? Give me the paragraph about helplessly pining, the description of the lurid lemon-yellow wallpaper, and the exposition describing how each flower in the garden smells. Why not? You can always edit after. How do you know what works if you don’t try it all?When I feel like I’m in a creative rut I pick up my journal and paint it purple. I scribble until my words turn to grape jelly, for no other reason than to see how it feels as it oozes out between my clenched fingers.
ABOUT
Emily Coppella (she/her) lives on traditional Anishinaabe Mississauga territory. She completed her M.A. In English Language and Literature at Queen’s University and her B.A. in English at Carleton University with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Women and Gender Studies. Her poetry has won 2nd place for the George Johnston Poetry Prize and has been published in several international literary magazines. You can find her on Instagram.
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