Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, though a novella, is one of the most revealing texts for aspiring writers. A deeply autobiographical work, it mirrors Kafka’s nervous uncertainty, his relentless inner complexity, and his sense of feeling alienated from the world. It’s set in reality, but there’s an undercurrent of strangeness in every sentence. Writers often struggle with over-explaining or creating a polished narrative in their works — Kafka does the opposite. His writing is abrupt, intimate, detailed, and not afraid of being uncomfortable.
Start with the Absurd
Kafka’s The Metamorphosis opens with a startling declaration: “When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.” There is no backstory or explanation of how and why he transformed. This kind of beginning challenges conventional writing advice that urges clarity, gradual buildup and context. Notice how Kafka’s abruptness demands reader engagement — you’re compelled to fill in the gaps emotionally, rather than being presented with a finished picture.
For aspiring writers, this approach is both disorienting and liberating. It’s a reminder that you do not need to earn your premise with logic or backstory. Many writers feel pressure to justify their story’s unusual elements — to build a world that explains itself before the plot begins. Kafka discards that impulse. He trusts the emotional truth of his narrative instead of the rational one. In Kafka’s world, the absurd isn’t just a mere shock but rather it opens the door to deeper emotional meaning.
Sometimes, clarity is not as important as conviction. If you believe in the emotional arc of your character, the reader will follow — even if the world makes no real sense. Kafka draws us in because we feel the weight of what’s happening before understanding it. Writers often explain too much out of fear of losing the reader. But sometimes, it’s more powerful to start with confusion and let readers find their way.
Ugly Metaphors Are Still True
Kafka’s metaphor is meant to disturb, it’s not meant to be clever or beautiful. There is nothing graceful about Gregor Samsa’s transformation. Gregor becomes an object of repulsion, not only to others but also to himself. His new form is awkward, filthy and clumsy — stripped of all dignity. The choice isn’t symbolic in a conventional sense; it’s deeply personal. Kafka once wrote, “Writing, when it springs from within, is like giving birth and the child is covered in mucus.” The Metamorphosis is that child — unvarnished, grotesque, and deeply alive.
This serves as a radical lesson: your metaphors don’t have to be elegant — they just need to be emotionally honest. Too often, writers look for beautiful yet profound metaphors to convey their feelings. They search for polished names for grief, alienation and shame, hence they end up limiting what they really feel. Kafka used metaphor in its rawest form, he chose one so ugly that it can’t be ignored — through it, he communicated something deeper with his words.
Aspiring writers can learn a simple yet profound piece of advice: don’t write what looks good but what feels true. Even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it’s repellent. Readers connect more with raw honesty than poetic constraints. The vermin in The Metamorphosis reminds us that metaphors aren’t decorative, but revelatory.
Realism Lives in the Details
Though The Metamorphosis begins with absurdity, it quickly settles into a world that feels familiar. Kafka turns his attention to the slow mundane details — the layout of his room, the sound of his sister’s footsteps or difficulty of turning the key to unlock the door. He grounds the extraordinary in the mundane. He doesn’t rely on stylized language or fantasy writing to explore Gregor’s condition.
The strange becomes believable when placed within the framework of the familiar. Kafka spends paragraph after paragraph helping us feel what it is like to live the transformation instead of explaining why it occurred. That’s what makes it real. In Chapter one’s fourth paragraph, Kafka lingers on Gregor’s futile attempt to swing his new limbs beneath the blankets. He tightens each clause around Gregor’s thought processes, so the reader literally inhabits the insect’s inertia.
His prose is slow, deliberate, often packing into long and winding sentences. It is not for the sake of complexity but because the pace reflects the state of Gregor’s sluggish mind. His surroundings are described in minute details which helps the readers to build a vivid, tangible space in their mind.
Writers often rush from one plot point to another, to keep the momentum but Kafka shows deep attention creates immersion. The more time you spend on the ordinary — the texture of the wall, the way a character walks — the more your reader will believe in the reality of your world.
Aspiring writers don’t need elaborate world building; they just need to observe closely and write with patience.
Don’t Force Clarity on Emotion
One of the most striking aspects of The Metamorphosis is how emotionally unresolved it is. Gregor isn’t a noble victim, nor is his family truly cruel. Their responses shift — from shock to pity to resentment. Gregor feels everything from guilt to anger to acceptance of his state. Kafka doesn’t try to make them morally right or likeable. They’re true to themselves.
This becomes a reminder that fiction doesn’t need to resolve emotional ambiguity. Real people don’t have clarity on their emotions, and characters shouldn’t either. There is a temptation, especially in first drafts, to simplify all emotions: to make someone wholly sympathetic and someone wholly wrong. His characters are complex, contradictory and even derived from his relationships with people but that’s what makes them real.
Kafka never tells us exactly how we should feel, he doesn’t editorialize. He trusts us enough to carry the emotional weight without needing to be guided to specific reactions. You don’t need to explain how a character is feeling — you need to make space for the reader to feel it themselves. In the third chapter of The Metamorphosis, we see Gregor, nearing the end of his life, hearing his sister play the violin.
He silently crawls to the living room, desperate for a human connection, to listen to the music, imagining that she might understand him. Kafka never says, “Gregor missed his sister” or “he felt a deep loneliness.” Instead, he writes, “Was he an animal, that music could move him so?”
It’s quiet, restrained and devastating but we’re the ones coming to this conclusion. The emotion is shown throughout the scene, with gesture, withdrawal, and silence but it’s never said out loud. Emotion doesn’t have to be neat; it just has to be real.
Conclusion: Writing Without Comfort
The Metamorphosis offers no easy answers, and that’s what makes it essential for aspiring writers. Kafka doesn’t chase beauty, clarity or resolution, he leans into discomfort, contradiction and silence. His work teaches us that writing doesn’t need to be polished to be powerful. Whether it’s beginning with chaos, holding onto raw metaphors, or letting emotions remain unsolved, Kafka shows us honesty matters more than elegance.
