Show, Don’t Tell

May 19, 2008

Show, Don’t Tell by Kari Breed

Many fiction writers, if not all, struggle with “show, don’t tell”: showing your readers what is happening, as opposed to blah blah blahing your way through, which reads a lot like your mother telling about a boring trip to the grocery store. Yawn! For me, showing and not telling always requires constant vigilance when I write. Even when I am sure I am paying attention, I still find myself frequently telling instead, kind of like hurrying through a bad part of town, eager to be in a more familiar place. Probably every book on writing I have ever read talks about this problem. I decided to write this article just to toss my own two cents out there and see if I can’t take out somebody’s eye.

What does it mean, “show, don’t tell”? It means that the story should be written to bring the reader into it. It should be written as if the reader is experiencing the action himself, or, perhaps, standing in the same room, eavesdropping on the dialogue and spying on the characters. You know that guy. What a creep.

Here is an example of telling:

He sat in his chair, playing a video game and drinking hot chocolate. The character he had created wasn’t as strong as the last one, and he thought about changing her again. Behind him, his wife sat at her desk and typed up an article about “Show, Don’t Tell”. He asked her what time it was. She told him it was 10:59. She wore a heavy sweatshirt even though it was hot in the room.

It’s not too God-awful, but it could be better.

Here’s an example of showing:

The damn chair was too low for the keyboard, and it made his wrists ache. The game had sucked him in again. His character, Jade, a Mage, threw her last lightning bolt, dodged left and was pummeled by a snakeskin bear. Where do they come up with these freakish creatures? He sighed as he watched the green bar representing her strength dwindle away. “I shouldn’t have changed her,” he said. “Huh?” a voice came from behind him. He turned and looked at his wife who was clack-claketing away at her keyboard, writing some stupid article for the morons who read her blog. Her face was flushed pink. Why was she wearing that stupid sweatshirt with the radiator cranked on high? Not that he cared, he asked, “What time is it, babe?” “Ten-fifty-nine,” she said, not bothering to look up.

Not exactly a riveting story. But the time is now 11:29. It took me a half hour exactly to write this meager scene; to conjure up realistic details, write it, edit it and read it to my husband who is over there playing video games. (He especially laughed at the “moron” part, but said nothing about my clever “snakeskin bear” creation.)

Though I never came out and said it, it’s obvious that the main character is feeling cranky but isn’t necessarily a bad guy. He comes to life through his actions, words, assumptions and name-calling. The reader (hopefully) feels like he has witnessed the scene firsthand. Better yet, feels like he has lived the main character’s experience with him through his mood and attitude.

My husband says of this article, “I don’t like it. You’re making me out to be the bad guy. I wasn’t being bad tonight.”

Perhaps my next article will be, “Sometimes the Husband is the Scapegoat”.

Posted in Writing