In my writing workshops we play a game called “Mystery Object.” I ask my students describe a real world object — preferably something in the world around them — without naming it in the description. Then, at the beginning of each workshop, the students take turns reading their Mystery Objects out loud while the rest of us try to guess what it is. There are a few rules: MO’s must be at least six sentences long; they cannot include the word “you;” each must contain one simile and one metaphor. Occasionally I add other rules: every word in the description (except for prepositions and articles) must begin with the letter ‘L’ (or some other letter); MO’s can only describe the effects of the object, and not its physical features; every sentence must contain a simile; and so on.
Recently a couple of students noticed that I wasn’t participating.
We refer to this as a pair, even though it’s really just one thing, just as we do with a pair of pants. They are as familiar to their wearers as the ends of their noses, which is helpful because these are usually perched on the bridges of their wearers’ noses. They are made of glass (and sometimes plastic), carefully ground to bend light in a special way. They are the common man’s astronomical lenses. Cleverly designed frames hold the pieces of glass in place, and from the outer edges, small supporting arms reach back to hook behind the ears and anchor the device in place. Frames and lenses come in many shapes and sizes, but this particular pair features slender wire frames and clear plastic bridge-pads and shaped pieces of ground glass that offer rectangular windows on their wearer’s windows to the soul. People have used these to correct flaws in their eyesight for centuries. I have used mine for only a couple of years.