What "Show, Don't Tell" Actually Means
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And why writers struggle with it
Image credit: glaeskePi on Pixabay
Writing blogs are full of advice, and sometimes the worst thing about them is that the advice they give isn’t always the best. Other times, the advice is good, but they don’t know the reasoning behind why it’s good—they simply pass it along and repeat the same thing, only louder, when someone digs deeper to inquire about it.
Explain yourself, please
So often, writers (and sometimes editors) throw advice around, all willy-nilly, expecting people to know what they’re talking about without explaining themselves. In his book, Stein on Writing, author/editor Sol Stein recounts a phone call he received from a writer who bemoaned the “show, don’t tell” advice given to her writing group by numerous speakers who never told them how to show.
It’s funny to me that we give the title of storyteller to some writers, but when they tell us a story via the written word, we’d rather have them show us how the story plays out. It’s probably ironic that the original storytellers of old were better at showing, because people were most likely gathered around them while they half-told, half-reenacted the tale of the evening.
The best writers are somehow able to make us feel that we’re there in the middle of the action. They immerse us in the world they’ve created by reminding us, through their word choices, of the physical and emotional reactions that occur as a result of an action or a bit of dialogue.
Chekhov’s moonlight example
I can’t imagine there’s anyone out there who hasn’t seen this example of “showing” in narrative, but on the off chance that you haven’t, there’s a popular quote that illustrates it. It’s from part of a letter Russian playwright Anton Chekhov wrote to his brother Alexander:
“. . . you’ll have a moonlit night if you write that on the mill dam a piece of glass from a broken bottle glittered like a bright little star, and that the black shadow of a dog or a wolf rolled past like a ball.”
That’s probably not the quote you were expecting, was it? More often attributed to Chekhov is the sort-of-but-not-really paraphrase:
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
Some may think Chekhov’s words were watered down, or trimmed beyond the original intent. I admit I was surprised to read the original, wondering how the now-popular version of it even came to be.
I can also agree with those who say, as did one commenter on a now-defunct site that discussed this very quote, that the real point is to inspire the artist to use their creative energy to make that moon shine like no one else has.
Reporters report, but storytellers should immerse
Those who aren’t writers can tell their stories in whatever manner they’d like. Most tell in a style much like a reporter giving the news: this happened, then that happened, and this was the result. They tell the facts, and even if they embellish those facts, they’re still just relaying what happened offstage, so to speak.
But think about the person in your friend group who can tell the same story as another, but better somehow. What do they do that makes their brand of storytelling unique—something others want to listen to? They might add the emotions to their story, or entertain by physically acting out portions.
Take these two examples, both from the same event:
Bert: Fred jumped out from behind the dumpster and really scared us!
Joe: Fred appeared all of a sudden from behind the dumpster, and I yelled, so Bert yelled. But I had jumped backward and tripped over a garbage pile that actually turned out to be a cat, of all things, and it yelled too, and climbed up Fred’s leg and made him fall into the side of the dumpster, which made a huge bang that made us all scream again, even though by then we knew it was just Fred and a dumb cat. I practically peed my pants—or threw up; my body hadn’t decided yet which one would fit the situation better, I guess.
Joe is probably going to have his friends laughing by the end of the storytelling, because his version of events is undoubtedly accompanied by pinwheeling arms, hands in motion, cat yowling noises, and more. Bert’s version doesn’t really convey how startled everyone was and how it all cascaded into a bigger event.
Give the reader an experience to remember
This is what we should aim for when writing. Make the listener/reader feel as if they really were there, not as if they’re hearing it secondhand or long after the event. Stein phrases it this way: “The reader wants an experience that’s more interesting than his daily life. He enjoys and suffers whatever the characters are living through. [. . .] Put simply, the reader experiences what is happening in front of his eyes. He does not experience what is related to him about offstage events.”
Personalities aren’t solely reserved for people
One of the things I enjoy about Kim M. Watt’s writing (yes, this is a shameless plug for one of the most talented authors I have the privilege of working with) is her ability to give everything a personality. Books of power menace their owners. Birds don’t fly, they fling themselves across the sky. Sea dragons named Audrey are polite enough to knock on the bottom of a boat before simply visiting its occupants. Sheep plot murders. A pond chooses to be bottomless when it’s convenient.
We’re shown these things in a way that makes us able to see them, to feel the emotion, the laughter, or the danger involved. The story comes through in actions and conversations that come to life in a rainbow of colors.
I think some of the best writers are able to make us feel the way they would if they were in their own stories. Much like a sculptor depicts a visual interpretation of anguish or strength, a skilled writer can do this with the narrative surrounding an event.
Think like a filmmaker
On her blog, author Joanne Fedler compares showing to making a movie, painting images for the reader that have the same impact as individual shots in a film. She states, “Telling robs the reader of his or her own emotional take on the situation,” using as an example She is lonely versus She looks for a kind face but never sees one. That particular post linked here has additional good advice for showing instead of telling, so make sure you give it a look. It’s not long but well worth the read.
Along the lines of comparison to a movie, perhaps pause the action the next time you’re watching something and ask yourself how you’d know what was being experienced if you only saw that shot. Maybe you get the idea that it’s cold because everyone onscreen is huddling into their coats a little deeper. You might get the idea that someone is angry or tense because they’re frowning and their fists are clenched. You know someone’s lying because they’ve avoided direct eye contact.
Nobody has specifically said, “It’s below freezing out here,” or “I’m so angry right now,” or even “Hey, I’m lying to you.” But you know these things because of the picture you’ve been given.
Put yourself in the moment
Something I’ve often thought would be a good exercise for teaching yourself how to show more effectively is to put yourself in the telling moment. If it’s a person, and you’ve told us they’re hot because of the outdoor temperature, think about the way you feel when you’re overheated. Do you sweat? Are you dizzy? Lethargic? Cranky? Sticky?
What about non-person telling? Let’s say there’s a shadow cast on the wall. Personify it for a moment: if you were that shadow, would you loom over the area? Creep up the wall? Would you cause the walls to shiver by taking away the warming sunlight coming through the window?
Do you have a favorite trick for going through what you’ve written to improve the “showing versus telling” areas? Have your readers ever told you how much they love the way you plop them into the middle of a situation and make them feel like they’re really there? I’d love to hear about it, and I’m sure others would too.
