The thing about clichés is that they’ve already done all the heavy lifting. They come pre-packaged with a bow, like a grocery store cake. You know it’ll taste like sugar, but you’ll forget it the second you swallow. That’s the problem. Clichés don’t stick. They don’t bruise, sting, or leave a mark. They slide right off the brain like a fried egg on a Teflon pan.
Writers, especially new ones, love to hide behind clichés
the way nervous speakers hide behind a podium. They’re little parachutes for
when your imagination decides to take a coffee break. And yes, we’ve all done
it. We’ve all leaned on them because they feel safe, familiar, universal.
But safe doesn’t make anyone keep turning pages. Familiar
doesn’t make a line hum inside someone’s chest three days later. A cliché is
like reheating leftovers in the microwave: sustenance, sure, but no one’s
licking the plate.
The real juice of writing comes from making the reader see
it differently. Not just cold, but cold in the way your knuckles ache
before the snow comes. Not just tired, but tired like your bones are begging
for a bed that doesn’t exist. These are the details that snag people. That
tattoo themselves in memory.
Clichés are basically the graveyard of originality. If
you’re dragging one into your work, ask yourself: What am I actually trying
to say? Then dig deeper. Scratch until you bleed a little. You’ll find
something truer, sharper, more unsettling. That’s the stuff readers are
starving for.
Because if writing is about connection, clichés are the
static on the line. Clear them out, and your voice finally comes through.
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Up Next → 10 Clichés That Need to Die Already
Think you don’t rely on clichés? Let’s see if your favorites make the hit list.
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