Show don’t Tell
Ref: Dennis Jerz
http://jerz.setonhill.edu/writing/creative/showing.htm
Don't just tell me your brother is funny... show
me what he says and does, and let me decide
whether I want to laugh.
To convince your readers, show, don't just tell
them what you want them to know.
Writing is emotionally powerful when it
engages the reader. Rather than classify and
list all the emotions that you felt, use specific
details that give the reader a reason to feel
the emotions you want to express.
I'll never forget how I felt after Fido died. I
was miserable.
Simply naming the feelings that you
experienced (telling your reader what you felt)
is not enough to create interest in the reader.
You need to find a way to generate, in your
reader, the same feelings that you
experienced.
Is this better?
If I live for a thousand years, I'll never
forget how utterly and terribly alone I felt
after Fido died. I was so miserable that I
thought I would die. Months and months
went by, and it seemed that every little thing
reminded me of him and made me wish
things could be different. I don't know
whether I am ever going to get over his
death.
No
While the author has added details, those
details merely assist the telling -- they don't
actually give the reader a reason to love Fido,
and to suffer along with the writer.
This is better!
Whenever puppies in the pet store window
distracted me from the serious business of taking
him for his walk, Fido growled, his little
ears flattened against his scruffy head. Yet he
always forgave me. Even after his hearing and
sight faded, when he felt the leash click on his
collar and smelled fresh air, he still tried to run.
He's been dead for three months now. This
morning I filled his water bowl all the way to the
top, just the way he likes it, before I remembered.
The author does not need to tell the reader "I
loved Fido and I still haven't come to terms
with his death," because the paragraph
contains specific details that show the depths
of the relationship.
Telling or Showing?
From the way she behaved in the crowded
party, you could tell Sally was attracted to the
cute stranger in the black shirt. She tried a
few things to get his attention, and eventually
she thought she succeeded.
Correct! It’s mostly ‘Telling’
The author wastes no time providing the
information, but the story is very thin...
nothing interesting seems to be happening.
Telling or Showing?
Bored by the conversation, Sally tossed her hair and
laughed. That stranger had been scanning the room, and
he noticed her this time. Wait, was that a half smile? Had
he just put his hand on his heart? Or was he just brushing
something from his shirt? Sally smiled. That shirt looked
soft.
"He's kind of cute," her room mate giggled.
Sally casually looked away. "Oh, I don't know," she said,
twirling a curl. She let her eyes rest on the curtains, the
food, a random face in the crowd, and found another
excuse to laugh. Carefully seating herself, she crossed her
legs the way she and her girlfriends had practiced at
school. That ought to do it, she thought.
Correct! It’s mostly ‘Showing’
The reader is left to figure out what's going
on... more engaging for a story. There is
tension, and even a bit of character
development.
The original version tells you a few specific but isolated
details, but why should the reader care what colour the
stranger's shirt is?
Without coming right out and saying "Sally was
attracted to the man," the revision shows a series of
different details that come together to form a pattern,
but the author does not come right out and announce
what the pattern means.
For example, Sally tries to catch the stranger's
attention; she notices his shirt when he seems to put
his hand on his heart; she imagines his shirt would be
soft. Since she's obviously thinking about touching it,
we can INFER what else she might be thinking.
Is Sally a sultry temptress, ready to ensnare
another hapless man? Or is she a geeky
secondary school pupil about to embarrass
herself (yet again) at an elegant party? The
revision doesn't come right out and describe
exactly what Sally does with her legs, but all we
need to know is that the gesture is meant to be
attractive.
Because the author has not come right out and
told us, we can only imagine… and this is what
keeps us reading.
Marty Wood from the University of Wisconsin says:
“A writer should show specific details that
enable the reader to reach a particular
conclusion.”
So… if the author connects all the dots and
then announces the conclusion for the
benefit of the reader, the writing is less
engaging, e.g. show smoke, and let the
reader infer fire.
I was so thrilled that I beat the football
captain in a chess game that I made a fool of
myself. I'll never live that down.
As you now know, this is straight telling. We
know the protagonist makes a fool of himself ,
but we don't feel embarrassed for him,
because we don't see any of this foolish
behaviour ourselves.
My heart was pounding and my adrenaline was
pumping. When I finally beat that big bully of a
football captain in a chess game, I jumped around
like an idiot, taunting him and laughing at him in
front of the whole school. Arrogance and
geekiness are not a combination that leads to
social success.
Now, while the author has added details, those
details merely assist the telling, they don't
actually show anything important. We still don't
get the chance to see the behaviour and judge for
ourselves whether it is foolish.
"Your bulging muscles are useless against my
superior intellect!" I laughed, as the conquered
football captain and the whole cafeteria stared. "I
have captured your queen, and in three moves, I
shall utterly destroy your king's little white plastic
arse! Hah!“
The completely over-the-top content of the
quoted speech communicates the protagonist's
emotional state as well as his arrogance; the
author does not have to come out and tell us that
this behaviour is idiotic, because there are
enough details that we can come to that
conclusion ourselves.
All the kids knew that Lucy was the meanest
kid in the class. She was prissy and cute; she
wore bows in her hair and shiny black shoes,
and she thought that meant she could get
away with anything. She never exactly scared
me, but for some reason she would always go
out of her way to torment me. I wasn't one of
the "cool" kids, and the few kids I knew were
just the girls I played chess with at lunch time,
they weren't really friends. Plus, I was
clumsy. So I was a good target. I was so
miserable and lonely, I could hardly face going
to class each day. That little girl made my life
a living hell.
When she saw me, she stopped; her ponytail
bobbed threateningly, and her eyes tracked
me across the gym. When the bell rang, I
clutched my chess set and dashed to freedom,
eager to win the daily tournament of
outcasts. Of course, I tripped in front of the
whole class. Tennis shoes and sandals stepped
around me and over me as I scrambled after
pawns and bishops. And there was Lucy,
waiting for me to notice her. She smiled, then
lifted her shiny patent-leather shoe, and slowly
ground my white queen into the pavement.
Both passages make the same point: Lucy is
mean. In the first passage, the author just
expects us to believe him: "Lucy was the
meanest kid in the class."
In the second passage, we read a detailed
account of Lucy's behaviour (she has a habit of
going "after" the protagonist; she waits until
she has the protagonist's attention before
crushing his queen), and we can judge for
ourselves.
The first passage offers a list of details about
what usually or often happens. We learn
about what Lucy looks like, and about the
protagonist's nerdiness from details in both
passages, but once we've finished reading the
paragraph on the left, there's nothing left for
us to do. There it is... the reader asks: so
what?
All the kids knew that Lucy was the meanest
kid in the class. She was prissy and cute; she
wore bows in her hair and shiny black shoes,
and she thought that meant she could get
away with anything. She never exactly scared
me, but for some reason she would always go
out of her way to torment me. I wasn't one of
the "cool" kids, and the few kids I knew were
just the girls I played chess with at lunch time,
they weren't really friends. Plus, I was
clumsy. So I was a good target. I was so
miserable and lonely, I could hardly face going
to class each day. That little girl made my life
a living hell.
The second passage focuses in detail on one
specific event. Instead of simply calling himself
clumsy, the author shows us one specific occasion
when he trips, and brings us down to the ground
with him, so that we see what he sees and feel
what he feels. The second passage never comes
out and says "I didn't have any friends," but the
fact that nobody stops to help the protagonist
makes us gather that the guy is an unpopular
loser. The comment about winning the daily
tournament of outcasts is kind of humorous, and
kind of sad at the same time. We learn quite a bit
about the author in just that one sentence.
When she saw me, she stopped; her ponytail
bobbed threateningly, and her eyes tracked
me across the gym. When the bell rang, I
clutched my chess set and dashed to freedom,
eager to win the daily tournament of
outcasts. Of course, I tripped in front of the
whole class. Tennis shoes and sandals stepped
around me and over me as I scrambled after
pawns and bishops. And there was Lucy,
waiting for me to notice her; she smiled, lifted
her shiny patent-leather shoe, and slowly,
carefully ground my white queen into the
pavement.
Ultimately, there is no need to call Lucy mean
in the second passage, because that concept is
conveyed effectively by the surprising detail of
the shiny patent-leather shoe crushing the
queen. There is no dead wood in the revision.
It is packed with details, creating a more vivid
emotional picture than the first one. We
actually learn something about Lucy. Is
something being inferred here? She is not just
being mean, she wants the protagonist’s
attention, too. Notice that she attacked the
queen, of all pieces. Does she consider the
chess set to be her competition?
He looked at me in a way that wasn't exactly
threatening, but still made me uncomfortable.
This is just a fancier way of telling the reader a feeling
by stating something that happened and spelling out
exactly what effect it had on you. What, exactly, did
this guy do with his eyes, face, and body that made you
uncomfortable? Describe his actions, and show your
reader exactly what made you uncomfortable. (Did he
waggle his eyebrows at you in a vaguely sensual
manner? Did he stare directly at you while taking a
gigantic bite out of a chicken wing, so that bits of
cartilage crunched in his mouth as he chewed? Did he
keep glancing up at a point just above your head, as if
something was about to drop on you, and then laugh
when you looked up to see for yourself?)
Clearly, something must be done about this
terrible crisis.
The words "clearly," "obviously," or variations ("nobody
can doubt that...") are often signs that the writer
knows perfectly well that he or she hasn't done a very
good job proving the statement that follows. A
confident assertion (simply forcefully saying that it's
so) is a way of telling.
Instead of just announcing that a certain thing is
"terrible" or "horrendous" or "the most hideous thing
you can possibly imagine" and expecting your reader to
believe you, a good writer should present evidence
(vivid examples) that lead the reader to conclude, on
his or her own, that this thing is terrible (or wonderful,
etc.).
And finally…
But sometimes telling can be a good thing…
“I am your father,” said Darth Vader.