Any writer worthy of his metaphors must have a vivid imagination. I started developing mine early on, at risk to my mortal soul, from the seat of my trusty red canoe. That I have never actually owned a red canoe in real life is irrelevant. Even imagined adventures are potentially sinful, and should be aired from time to time to relieve the pressure of any accumulated corruption that might be coloring one’s otherwise squeaky-clean life and prose. Writers are notorious for such imaginative