Show, don't Tell -- with focus on "show" (Part I)

a Foundational post

My sons and I in Canterbury ruins…

For those who are new to The Unschool, this photo indicates a “foundational” post—something that is basic to writing (and always worthy of a re-visit by those who regularly write, too). In the annual Indexes, you’ll find this photo and under it, a listing of such posts.

Show, Don’t Tell

Is one of those axioms so readily, eagerly, annoyingly (yes!) trotted out in writing workshops—and by agents and editors, too—that we can start to tune it out. Yet it remains a key piece of rich writing that connects with the reader. Why?

Halfway through writing this post, I realized—not for the first time—how deep a topic this is. I’m breaking it in two, and will post the “Telling” piece on its own within a week. “Telling” always gets the short end, yet in truth we write a lot of “telling,” so I want to explore it thoroughly.

There’s always some mystery though, as to what this is about, how it works, how to nurture it in your own work. Maybe mostly: How important is it…?

Questions

One of the Unschool writers sent me the following list of solid questions around this subject.

1) What are the clues to look for in the writing as to whether one is showing or telling?  What sort of words are indicators? How can one make the shift?

2) Are there ever times when telling is acceptable or even preferred in writing or is it always considered undesirable. (This I will deal with in more detail in Part II.)

3) How can I get more inside my characters to show rather than tell? 

4) Are there any exercises to train oneself to be aware of the differences?

5) is it more difficult to “show” when writing in third person POV? 

1) What are the clues to look for in the writing as to whether one is showing or telling?  What sort of words are indicators? How can one make the shift?

There are several components to this question, and there will be some overlap in my answers… so read through.

Telling is about making a statement. “This is how it is.” Vocabulary that points to this can be the “to be” verb: is/was—in all its forms)

E.G. Max was frightened. (The “was” can be replaced by all sorts: “Max feels frightened.” It’s still “telling.” It “is.”)

Showing, on the other hand, evokes or illustrates, and leaves conclusion or thoughts (sometimes questions) with the reader. If you are reading a sentence that leaves you wondering about the character or story, it is not a telling-sentence. Sometimes you ascertain things by what they are not.

Example

Telling: It was cold outside.

Each word in this sentence answers a basic question. Where? How? What? When? … It’s the city. It’s cold. It’s outside. The reader does not have to think—the whole gets mentally filed away as the story builds.

Showing: London winter made no effort to find friends.

Here, the reader has to make mental effort to translate… but with that effort, they pick up more than the obvious. So with this “show,” they’ll pick up that it’s cold, yes. They’ll pick up on a sense of “miserable.” They might also “read” the character’s sense of loneliness, or feeling unloved however momentary. It might mean that the moment of stepping into indoor warmth feels to be extraordinarily welcoming. It might be that the writer is trying to evoke the city—London—as a character, and its nature for this particular story/character.

These are all possibilities/examples. There are multiple ways to read any such sentence; “showing” builds—it is more than the parts.

In telling, there’s a simplicity.

In showing, layers of meaning and story are created. Dynamic connection with the reader is created.

One piece of vocabulary that can also standout is our friend (or otherwise!), the adverb.

An adverb can serve as a short-cut. Instead of allowing the reader to see and/or absorb, an adverb tells the reader the how. There is no interpretation needed. The work is done.

The adage about valuing what we work for applies here as much as anywhere. Readers—subconsciously—like to work with a text. Even the most television-addicted. (Those who don’t like the work, watch television; you aren’t losing a reader.)

That said… there are times when you might want a particular adverb. I often base my own adverb decisions on sound. Does it sound like it is the word that has to go right here? Can nothing else take its place? Note the use of a lineup of adverbs at the outset of this post: readily, eagerly, annoyingly… and “annoyingly” is just that!

“Primly,” for instance, is an adverb that gives me a giggle. And there are more. Words that appeal to you, or speak to you in some way, are not to be ignored.

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2) Are there ever times when telling is acceptable or even preferred in writing or is it always considered undesirable?

Answer: there is no “always” in writing… is a short answer.

Telling is acceptable and used; we’ll look closely at this in Part II, posted within the week. It’s a sizeable topic.

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3) How can I get more inside my characters to show rather than tell? 

For many writers the path to “showing” is all about the sensory. Writing with the sensory also serves to create a first-person—or “close”—read when writing in third person—question #5.

This is a literal “getting inside” with physical awareness, describing the sensation of being rained on, the heat of a fire, the sound and vibrations of a didgeridoo… and so on, causing the reader to feel/experience with the character.

Our emotions elicit certain types of physical reactions. Check out this article, and you can find similar resources on this.

Question your own reactions—physical, mental, emotional—to events around you, to words people speak, actions they take.

This question of getting inside a character is the real work of a fiction writer: to inhabit characters. And to allow them to inhabit us.

There’s a point in this work at which we cease plotting, and we cease thinking about the principles and tools. All that we’ve learned falls to the side, and something else takes its place. For me, this can be in first draft, but often is later in the process, when I’m in several drafts deep. It’s at a point at which the characters become people and not characters, their story interwoven into my days and nights, when I have falling-to-sleep moments of recognition. And then honour the process by jotting down that thought; we have to listen. Such times are gifts.

What does this have to do with showing and telling? Everything. Because we are seeing the character from within. We are not a camera looking on from afar. We are feeling and experiencing AS the character. And then we begin to share that world—as “we” see it—with the reader.

So part of the answer to the “how can I?” question, is to open your self.

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4) Are there any exercises to train oneself to be aware of the differences?

The writing-experience I speak of just above—the deeply-felt inhabiting of character—is something of an “exercise.” If you’re not feeling that in your work, give this some thought: sit or move as your character. Think and feel as your character. Write journal entries as your character, or a letter to a loved one or an enemy—as the character. Experience their world. This would be an internalized exercise. Imagine them sharing this world with an other, both in word and in action. So much of “showing” means taking a thought or feeling or response that at first strikes me as something I struggle to put words to—and then doing just that.

An external exercise, on the other hand—a mechanical approach—might be to take a page from a novel—or a half dozen novels, written by authors you love to read, whose work strikes you as evocative.

Photocopy the page, and have highlighter pens. Highlight sentences and phrases you see as “telling” in one colour, and “showing” in another. (You may be surprised by the amount of “telling,” after all the trotting out of “show-don’t-tell!”) Some words will have you wondering.

You might want to do this high-lighting operation with your own words, too. I’d recommend doing this in short bursts. When you tire of it, don’t push. Stop. In several weeks or months, revisit, with others’ works and your own. You’ll begin to see showing and telling in all that you read. Note the instances of when it seems to you to be particularly successful, either showing or telling. (And when not so successful.)

Thoughts on #3 connect with this, too: when you are reading strong work, work that resonates with you, NOTE what the writer is doing. HOW have they gotten inside their characters? What has convinced you they are “inside”—what causes a character to come to life for you? Note these times/words in your process journal.

“Telling” and more on Question #5 is forthcoming…

Questions? Thoughts?