I've been plagued with the tendency--nay, a gripping need--lately to litter everything I write with clichés. From emails to blog posts to formal writing--there in the middle of my paragraph like some pimple--will be a "the devil is in the detail" or a "don't throw out the baby with the baby water". It has been a constant, uphill battle to wrench my typing fingers free of the seductive pull in my keyboard of "too many chefs in the kitchen."
For one New-York second, a part of me is deluded into thinking that I must have made it up myself. How witty. How cool to author a budding cliché! But alas, burdensome reality. It is clear that I am merely un-original. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Last night, out of nowhere, "it happened in the 11th hour" came out of me.
Then I said, "Or is it the 13th hour? Or is that the witching hour?...well, it happened at the last second." I then scratched my head Homer-esque, and scrunched up my face like an accordion.
I was informed, "There is no 13th hour." Like, seriously mortifying. I muttered something about cutting off the nose, to spite the face. It couldn't be helped, I was a woman possessed.
Haven't I learned by now that one must avoid these treacherous gems that are oh so glitteringly exact and clever? Has it not been drummed into my head, that they should be used sparingly, carefully--their appearance a mere blip on that radar screen?
As with all of life's conundrums, I turn to a random, google search result for answers.