Let’s dive in.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [0:00]
Well, hello everyone. Welcome to this week’s episode of the Writing Your Resilience podcast. I am so glad that you are here—and I’m especially glad today because we’re going to do something a little different.
We’re starting a new segment of the podcast, and I would love to hear what you think. Please be sure to leave comments on YouTube, and you can also text the podcast to let me know your thoughts.
This new segment is an Editor’s Roundtable with my two guests, editors I’m currently working with and supervising as they learn how to be trauma-informed: Kristin Sanken and Lynn Shattuck. In just a moment, I’ll give them an opportunity to introduce themselves, and then we’ll dive into an issue that can supercharge your writing life—something so many writers struggle with: metaphors.
We’re going to have a deep conversation about them—defining metaphors in a few different ways, talking about our writing practices, and exploring how we know when we’ve created one that truly works. We’ll also share some exercises you can use and discuss the challenges that come up along the way.
Before we begin, let me introduce Kristin and Lynn. Kristin, I’ll start with you. Tell us a little about yourself and what you do.
Kristin Sancken [1:40]
Hi, I’m Kristin Thomas Sanken. You’ll have to forgive me for these ridiculous headphones and this speaker setup—my pandemic purchase meant to make meetings better. They’re hideous, but they work really well.
I was born in Panama, raised in Mexico, came of age in Minnesota, and now live in Virginia—so a big part of my life has been moving around and being very international. My writing has earned awards and publications in The Guardian, Huffington Post, and Columbia Journal, to name a few.
I also run a Substack called Sanctuary of the Holy Others, which gives people who’ve been marginalized by society and the church—especially those who’ve been hurt—a space to tell their faith stories.
Right now, I’ve been working with Lisa for about a year, training to become a trauma-informed editor. I have degrees in both social work and writing, and I’ve really enjoyed growing in this space, getting to know people’s stories, and helping them release those stories into the world.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [2:47]
It has been an absolute joy to work with you, Kristin—and your headphones are fabulous! I feel like you’re about to command the Starship Enterprise or reveal your superhero identity.
Listeners, if you haven’t seen these, you need to head over to YouTube to check them out—you might even decide you want a pair too.
Before we move on, I want to give a quick shout-out to Kristin. Clients who’ve worked with her often email me to say how much they’ve enjoyed the experience and how insightful she’s been. So, if you’d like to be one of those clients, you can email me, or I’ll put you directly in touch with her—she’s currently taking new clients.
And that brings us to Lynn, who’s newer to our group but every bit as talented. I’m so excited to have her on board. Lynn, can you tell us a little about yourself?
Lynn Shattuck [3:46]
Sure! I’m a writer, editor, and now coach. I’m the co-editor of an anthology on sibling loss that came out in June, called Loss of a Lifetime. I live in Maine, and I grew up in Alaska—that’s me in a nutshell.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [4:03]
And what happened earlier this year that was huge—something I was a part of, but you were the one who shepherded it to the finish line?
Lynn Shattuck [4:13]
The anthology—yes! In June, we launched Loss of a Lifetime: Grieving Siblings Share Stories of Love, Loss, and Hope.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [4:23]
Lynn is being humble here, so I want to give her the spotlight. It’s such an incredible anthology. When we held the virtual launch, around 80 people attended—which is huge for an online event. None of that would’ve been possible without Lynn and all the hard work she put in, alongside Alison Shelton and the Maine crew who helped with organization, websites, and all the logistics of publishing a book.
I’m so glad to have you both here. Let’s dive into our conversation on metaphors—a perfect first topic because you’re both metaphor superheroes.
I know this because I’ve read your gorgeous work, and we’ll include links in the show notes so listeners can enjoy your essays. But to begin, let’s ground our discussion: What is a metaphor?
I’ll start by sharing the literal definition, then we’ll talk about what it means to each of us. Dictionary definitions are helpful, but they’re never the whole story.
According to the dictionary, a metaphor is “a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable.” So, what does that actually mean? How do you see a metaphor?
Kristin Sancken [5:59]
When I was thinking about that question, I tried to write down my own definition—no dictionary involved—and what I came up with was pretty similar. I wrote: “Using objects, ideas, and surroundings to convey deeper truths of a story that help to deepen and expand its meaning.”
Lisa Cooper Ellison [6:16]
I love that. What about you, Lynn?
Lynn Shattuck [6:21]
I also avoided using a dictionary. For me, a metaphor is a way of creating a connection that helps us deepen our understanding of a situation. It can also be symbolic.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [6:37]
I love both of those answers—and they intersect with how I see metaphor, too.
I wanted to begin with the dictionary version because people like something that feels “official,” but for me, a metaphor is a container—a vessel for that which is difficult to express. It makes the ineffable concrete.
When we’re writing about feelings, spiritual experiences, or anything intangible, metaphor allows us to feeland engage with those ideas. That’s what makes it such a powerful part of the writing process.
Kristin Sancken [7:15]
Yes, absolutely. When I was preparing for this podcast, I kept bumping into simile—the “this is like that” or “as” comparisons—and I realized metaphors are a much deeper version.
A simile might appear off the cuff within a sentence, but a metaphor often weaves through a whole piece. You see it strongest in short forms like poetry and song lyrics, where writers must communicate so much with so few words. Metaphors invite readers or listeners to connect deeply—to link the words to an experience they’ve had, even one they don’t have language for but know through feeling.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [8:04]
I love that. What would you add, Lynn?
Lynn Shattuck [8:07]
I think metaphors also connect the unconscious and the conscious. We dream in metaphors, after all. They’re woven into our humanity—a bridge between what we know consciously and what we intuitively feel.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [8:24]
I love what you just shared, because two exercises immediately come to mind that can help people write better metaphors.
The first is to record your dreams. When you write about your dreams, you’re capturing metaphors that arise organically from your subconscious. Then, you can get curious about how those images relate to your waking life. How is the storm that appears in your dream connected to an experience or emotion you’re having? Exploring that connection can yield metaphors that feel authentic and deeply resonant.
The second exercise is to practice writing similes. Similes use the words like or as to make comparisons, and they can be a great starting point for discovering metaphors that work in your writing. Once you’ve crafted a simile, try retooling the sentence to remove the like or as—that’s often the moment you move from simile into metaphor.
So those are two quick exercises inspired by what you both just said. Now, let’s talk about your favorite metaphors. What are some that you return to again and again—ones that help anchor you in your writing process?
Kristin Sancken [9:40]
It was actually easier for me to think of my least favorite metaphors than my favorite ones. One that came to mind was from Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. It’s an old book, one we read back in high school. I remember my English teacher explaining that in one of the scenes, there’s a bucket with holes in it, and she said the bucket was a metaphor for Africa—that Africa was this place where you pour resources in and they just leak out.
I remember feeling so upset by that interpretation. Having grown up in the developing world, I thought, that is not the metaphor at all. I argued with her in class—which, in a Catholic school, was definitely frowned upon!—but I couldn’t let it go. I asked, “How do we know that’s the metaphor? How do we know it’s not just a rusty bucket, the kind that would naturally exist in that setting?”
That experience stuck with me because it raised the question of how we know a writer’s intention for a metaphor. Sometimes I think readers project their own experiences onto a story instead of considering what the writer is actually conveying. Everyone comes to a book with their own background, so we all interact with metaphors differently.
To me, the best metaphors are the ones that feel universal—the ones most people can tap into and understand.
A more positive example comes from a book I just finished and loved, The Lion Women of Tehran. The title comes from the Persian word shirzan, which means “lion women.” Throughout the book, the author uses the lion as a sustained metaphor. Every time a lion appears, it’s clear she’s also describing the women—strong, fierce, protective.
There’s a moment where the women stand in front of the New York Public Library, which has two iconic lion statues. The author writes about how these lions guard knowledge and ensure access for everyone. Because of the book’s theme, the reader immediately connects those lions to the women in Tehran, who are fighting for education and equality.
What’s beautiful is that the author never explicitly says, “This woman is a lion.” Instead, through repetition and imagery, the metaphor becomes a thread that ties the whole book together. It worked so well for me because I could feel it—not just understand it. As a woman who’s experienced discrimination, I related to that sense of fierceness and protection for future generations. That’s the kind of metaphor that lands powerfully.
Were there metaphors that worked for you both?
Lynn Shattuck [12:59]
Yes—I immediately thought of Group by Christy Tate. It’s another example of an extended metaphor, similar to the one Kristin just described. Tate uses the image of an unscored heart at the beginning of the book. Her goal over the course of the memoir is to have a scored heart—to experience the messiness and pain of being fully alive and connected.
I remember hearing that she added that metaphor somewhat late in the writing process, and I love that idea: taking a resonant symbol and using it to trace emotional motion and transformation through the narrative. It’s such a vivid, tangible way to show change.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [13:38]
I love what you both just shared, and I want to point out a couple of important things before I share some of my own favorites.
First, one way to discover metaphors is by noticing what you don’t like. Those resistance points—where something grates or feels off—can be powerful places to start exploring. Another way is to pay attention to what repeats. Sometimes a metaphor shows up once and helps clarify a moment, but other times there’s an overarching metaphor that creates resonance across a whole work.
A good metaphor will also evolve over time as you interact with it. The way you interpret a metaphor today might change based on who you are and what you’ve lived through. So as both writers and readers, it’s useful to ask: Who am I as I approach this metaphor? What identities am I bringing to the text, and how do they shape what I see or feel?
Writers, in turn, should consider: What metaphors will rise organically from who I am? What images and experiences live inside me that might naturally find their way onto the page?
And as you both mentioned, the best metaphors are often implied rather than stated outright—they emerge through tone, imagery, and repetition rather than declaration.
Now, listeners, I want you to really think about this beyond writing, because metaphors aren’t just a literary device—they’re a way of understanding life. Many of you listening are writers working on books, but some of you write simply to make sense of your experiences, to cope, or to clarify your thoughts. Metaphor can help with all of that.
The example I want to share is deeply personal. It comes from a book of poetry by Michael O’Siadhail—I think that’s how his name is pronounced. If I’m saying it wrong, someone please correct me. If you’re watching on YouTube, you can see the cover. The book is called Our Double Time.
I met Michael in Ireland back in 2000. He was a poet I encountered at a poetry house—though I can’t remember which one now. I had just graduated with my bachelor’s degree, and three years earlier my brother had died by suicide. Michael was also grieving someone, and it was from that grief that he wrote Our Double Time.
The title itself is a double entendre. “Double time” refers to a musical quickening, but it also describes what happens in grief—the way we begin to live again, but differently, as we carry both loss and renewal within us.
When I met him, he signed my copy “For Lisa—enjoy your double time.” We had a long, heartfelt conversation about the people we’d lost, what grief had taught us, and the preciousness of experiencing life again with new meaning. That inscription—and the book itself—has become a living metaphor for me.
I also love “Hope is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson. It’s such a simple line, but when life feels hard, I return to it again and again. Another one I hold close is the old saying, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.” I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes clichés survive because they carry enduring truth.
Now, do I want to use clichés like that in my writing? No. As writers, we want to find fresh ways to express old truths. But in life, those familiar metaphors can comfort and sustain us.
The more you engage with metaphor beyond the page—in your daily life, relationships, and reflections—the easier it becomes to recognize and craft metaphors that feel fresh and authentic when you write.
So that brings me to my next question for both of you. You’re not just editors—you’re writers, deep in the trenches with your projects. You both create powerful metaphors. So, when you’re writing—when it’s just you and the page—what’s your process?
I think a lot of listeners imagine that we writers just sit down and say, “Metaphor, reveal yourself!” and then brilliance pours out. But that’s not how writing actually works. So, tell us what really happens for you when metaphors show up in your process.
Kristin Sancken [18:32]
This was a really hard question for me. What about you, Lynn? Were you able to answer it easily? I reflected on it for a long time, so I want to hear Lynn’s answer first—and then I’ll riff off that.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [18:45]
And I’ll just say, Lynn, to take you off the hook—it was hard for me too. Since I’m the one who asked the question, I’ll take responsibility for answering it later.
Lynn Shattuck [18:55]
It is a hard one! But I think my answer might still be useful. For me, it’s about seeing connections and training myself to look for them.
Most of the time, metaphors don’t come when I’m sitting at my desk—they appear when I’m out in the world. For example, the other day my daughter thought I was being ridiculous because we were driving to her orthodontist appointment, and she pointed out a car that had parked horribly—like, completely crooked.
I said, “You know, that’s a metaphor. You never know who was parked there before. You’re judging the car that’s crooked, but you’re not seeing how the last person might’ve parked over the line and forced them into that spot.”
She rolled her eyes and told me that was incredibly obnoxious—but I was actually proud of that metaphor!
Kristin Sancken [19:46]
I love that! And yes, it really is about training yourself to think in connections—to make leaps between seemingly unrelated things.
What I’ve noticed in my own writing is that some of my best metaphors start with a cliché. I’ll write something I know I shouldn’t—like “It’s always darkest before the dawn” or “She’s a gem”—and then I challenge myself to make it fresh.
What does that really mean in this context? Can I describe the gem? Why does it matter? What makes it valuable in this particular moment? When I slow down to explore those questions, the sensory details and emotional nuances transform the cliché into something alive and specific.
Kids are actually great at this. My kids love to play this game at the dinner table: If you were a dessert, what would you be? If you were an office appliance, what would you be?
Those are all metaphors! And they love stretching their imaginations to make those associations. Sometimes they’ll even reimagine every character in a book as a different kind of chip—like, “That one’s a Cool Ranch Dorito!” It’s silly, but it’s metaphor play in its purest form.
That kind of looseness—the willingness to connect disparate ideas—is at the heart of metaphor-making.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [21:13]
So, I’m going to have to invite your kids over, Kristin, since we live in the same town—because that game sounds amazing. I play it with my husband all the time, and it drives him bananas. He’ll say, “I don’t want to play that. Stop asking me these questions!” But I can’t help it—it’s such a great way to engage your imagination.
Asking yourself those “If you were X, what would you be?” questions can open up surprising insights. It’s all about thinking in containers—and that reminds me of the hermit crab form, which I use often when working with writers. That’s when you take your experience and place it within an unexpected structure—a police blotter, a recipe, an obituary, or even a field guide.
When you impose a structure like that on your story, metaphors tend to appear naturally. It’s a way of translating emotional experience into something tangible.
I personally think in visuals. So, when I sit down to write, I do a few specific things. Before I start, I center myself through meditation and notice if any images or objects arise. I learned this practice in a mindful writing course I took back in 2013 at the University of Virginia. In that class, there was a table full of random objects, and we had to pick one up and write its story—to imagine where it came from, what it had seen, or how it connected to our lives.
That practice stuck with me. Even now, I’ll pay attention to any image that surfaces and see what it’s trying to tell me. Then, I’ll start jotting down comparisons—“it was like this,” “it felt like that.” Most of them are garbage, especially early on, and that’s okay.
One of the most important parts of the writing process is giving yourself permission to write trash. So many writers freeze because their inner critic insists that every sentence must be perfect from the start. That’s exactly why I created my Ditch Your Inner Critic Now masterclass—to help writers loosen that grip. If you’d like a free copy, you can find the link in the show notes.
The goal is to warm yourself up—which, by the way, is another metaphor for the process. You’re getting loose, relaxed, ready to create. Especially in early drafts, you want that freedom to play, to explore. Once you’ve done that, you can move into the final stage: figuring out when a metaphor truly works.
That brings me to our next question—how do you know when you’ve landed on a really good metaphor?
Kristin Sancken [24:08]
For me, it’s when I start to daydream about it. I loved what Lynn said earlier about connecting the subconscious to the conscious—because that’s exactly it.
I spend a lot of time driving kids around—to school, appointments, practices—and I notice that when a metaphor follows me into that in-between space, when it keeps unfolding in my mind, that’s the sign I’ve found something good.
I’ll start thinking, oh, here’s where I could take it… and here’s another angle… and another. It just keeps developing.
I once wrote a poem that ended up winning first prize at the University of Virginia, and it came to me entirely in the car. It was about a parent dying of strangulation, and I started playing with ideas around oxygen—O₂, life, breath, betrayal (“Et tu, Brute”), and the fragile link between science and survival. It was just layer after layer of connection.
When I submitted it, I thought, this is total trash. But then it won first prize!
That experience taught me something: you don’t always know what’s good when you’re in it. What you do know is when something feels fun—when it’s alive in your mind, pulling you forward. That sense of playfulness, of taking risks and letting your imagination roam—that’s where good metaphors come from.
Sometimes they’ll miss the mark, of course. But sometimes they’ll surprise you and resonate more deeply than you expect.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [26:21]
I love that.
Lynn Shattuck [26:22]
I love that too, Kristin. I love the idea of being expansive and playful with metaphor.
I also think it helps to test them—though that’s not advice I give lightly. Having a trusted writing group, editor, or coach can make a huge difference.
Sometimes a metaphor resonates strongly for us because it’s personal—it connects to our own subconscious—but it might not translate for others. Sharing it with people you trust gives you feedback on whether it’s landing the way you intend.
That doesn’t mean you need to crowdsource every image but letting a few safe readers reflect back what they see can help you refine your metaphors, so they truly connect.
Kristin Sancken [26:58]
And I do think it matters who the voice is. For example, I once wrote a piece from my childhood perspective—when I was about eight years old—and I used a metaphor that referenced The Shining. My writing coach said, “There’s no way an eight-year-old would know that reference.”
That feedback was so helpful. You have to pay attention to who’s speaking. If you’re writing from your child self, or writing fiction through a specific character, you have to ask: Would this person know this metaphor? Would they think or speak this way?
The same goes for time and place. If you’re writing a historical novel set in the 1800s, you can’t use a metaphor from a modern movie—it just won’t fit. I hadn’t connected those dots until my coach pointed it out.
When I went back to the piece, I asked myself, what would my eight-year-old self compare this to? What would she find frightening? Reimagining it from her perspective made the scene much stronger—it allowed readers to see through the eyes of a child and truly feel what that kind of fear would be like.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [28:04]
Yes—those are such important points. You have to think about who your character is and whether the metaphor you’re using feels authentic to that character’s worldview, time, and age.
And as you said, Kristin, allowing yourself to have fun with metaphor is equally essential. When you described your process earlier, you weren’t forcing it—you were driving, daydreaming, letting the idea unfold naturally. That kind of passivity—the openness that comes from walking, showering, or doing something meditative—is often where the best metaphors appear.
Lynn, I also love what you said about feedback, because we all lose perspective. Our inner critic can drown out the truth of what’s actually working. So many writers think, oh, this is terrible, when in reality, it’s brilliant.
Just last week, I was in a class where a student shared an incredible metaphor—something that’s still with me days later. When I told her how powerful it was, she said she thought it was clichéd, even banal. She was ready to toss it out. That’s exactly why trusted readers and coaches matter—they can help you see what you can’t.
A good coach not only points out your strengths but also helps you recalibrate your inner compass. They’ll ask, what did it feel like in your body when that line came through? How did you know it was right? Learning to recognize those embodied signals helps you return to that creative flow again and again.
And speaking of that, let me share a playful moment. I have this unpublished poem—and you’re both inspiring me to dust it off and send it out. I wrote it a few years after my brother’s death, during an advanced poetry class.
After he died, my mom made cookbooks for each of us. When I found my brother’s copy, I noticed a single fingerprint pressed into the flour-dusted cover. That small, ordinary mark felt sacred—an imprint of his life, a trace of his presence.
In the poem, I explored that fingerprint as a metaphor for the impression we leave on one another—how the smallest things can hold immeasurable meaning. I knew it was a strong metaphor because I felt it deeply, right in my body.
And then, as so many of us do, I tucked it away. It felt too precious to share. But maybe it’s time to bring it back.
Metaphors don’t have to be lofty or academic. They’re playful, intuitive, and deeply human. They help us make the unconscious conscious—to connect with what’s difficult to see or feel or name.
And that leads me to the final topic for today. As many of you know, I’m an Akashic Records reader and am currently studying to become an Akashic Records healer and guide. Before our conversation, I asked my Masters, Teachers, and Loved Ones what else they wanted us to discuss—and they said, “Talk about the metaphor of home.”
So: How does home show up for you? What does home mean?
Let me grab my notebook here—I actually wrote this down when it came through. The question was: What is home? Where is it? What does it feel like? And how is home a forgotten metaphor?
That’s where I want to take us next. How is home a forgotten metaphor in your work or life?
And please, don’t overthink it. Whatever comes to you first is perfect.
Speaker 3 [32:38]
The first thing that came to mind was, home is where you do chores.
Kristin Sancken [32:45]
That might say a lot about my current life stage—but I think it’s true. If you care about a place, you’re willing to put effort into it.
At school, for instance, you weren’t asked to vacuum the floors or clean the boards. But at home, because you care about the space and the people in it, you’re willing to do that work.
I also think a lot about the body as home. Growing up, especially as a woman, I was taught that my body was a showpiece—something meant to look good from the outside.
But thinking of the body as a home changes everything. A home needs maintenance: you replace the roof every few decades, change the water filters, take care of the plumbing. Those aren’t glamorous tasks, but they’re essential. They’re like workouts and medical checkups—things that keep your home livable.
If you see your body only as curb appeal, you focus on appearances—the flowers out front, the fresh paint. But if you treat your body as a true home, you invest in its foundations. You do the hard work that keeps it comfortable and enduring. That, to me, is the metaphor of home.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [34:23]
I love that—and public service announcement: if you haven’t scheduled your colonoscopy, please do so. Drink the prep!
Lynn, what about you?
Lynn Shattuck [34:37]
Kristin, that was beautiful. What came to me is how metaphors sometimes appear before we understand them.
Right after my dad died, I had this vision—it felt almost like seeing an inner child version of myself. At first, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought, okay, grief is strange—it does weird things to your mind.
But a couple of years later, I realized that vision was an invitation to come home to myself—to the parts I’d neglected or abandoned. It was my psyche’s way of saying, there’s a home inside you that’s waiting to be reclaimed.
Lisa Cooper Ellison [35:22]
I love that—and I love that I get to know that inner child of yours. I can’t wait for listeners to meet her, too. That’s coming, I promise!
As for me, it’s interesting that the Masters, Teachers, and Loved Ones brought up home, because it’s such a complicated concept in my own life. I write about that often on my Substack.
As I listened to both of you, a metaphor just came to me—it felt like it dropped right into my awareness:
Home is a hole I fall into so I can feel the walls.
I’m not entirely sure what that means yet, but I trust that exploring it will help me understand home in a new way. The image makes me think about the unconscious structures that hold us—the unseen boundaries, the shadows and wonders that shape how we belong.
Because even in darkness, there’s beauty. We just don’t always allow ourselves to look for it.
This conversation has been such a joy.
Listeners, if you’ve enjoyed today’s Editor’s Roundtable, there are two things you can do: text the podcast or leave a comment on YouTube. (And I’ll add—YouTube comments really help with the algorithm!) Let us know what resonated with you.
And if there’s a topic you’d like us to explore, tell us! Some of our best conversations come from your suggestions. This podcast is for you, and the more you share, the more we co-create this space together.
Before we close, I want to say a huge thank you to Kristin and Lynn. You two will definitely be back for future roundtables.
And to everyone listening: trust the process. The metaphors that belong to you already live inside you. Your job is simply to stay open and curious—to relax and allow them to emerge.
When you do, you’ll write—and live—the story that sets you free.
Thank you so much for being here. Until next time, keep believing in your story—because it matters, both to you and to the world.
edited by Lynn L. Shattuck and Alyson Shelton
