“Show, Don’t Tell” is a well-known piece of writing advice that you might’ve heard of around the internet.
It has been repeated before within story blogs, from esteemed authors like Ernest Hemingway to countless DIY books on creative writing. It became a notable answer on what supposedly makes an okay writer become a good writer, and that concept troubles me.
By the article’s title, you might believe that “Show vs. Tell” is a misnomer, and perhaps a mockery of the advice that we’re about to discuss, and it wouldn’t be quite right to say yes. While I advocate for detailed descriptions, there lies a misinterpretation within writing communities on what is the correct way to write properly. What happens is that advice columns would recommend “Show, Don’t Tell” as one likely alternative. Usually, this advice is attached with warnings on preventing information dumping.
The guidance here isn’t malicious. It does harbor great viewpoints on why Showing to your audience matters and why Telling can become tedious, but that advice falls flat in how to instruct authors on what they can do to improve. The phrase doesn’t teach the author to write effectively, but instead, has them follow rules without understanding the mechanics of how “showing” or “telling” works. Both are effective tools in storytelling, and deserve to have their strengths and flaws displayed in an equal manner. What matters is that it isn’t about labeling one technique as weaker than the other, but rather about what is viable for you. It is “showing vs. telling”.
As writers, our job is to understand these tools and how they showcase our styles, scene effectiveness, and intentions within our stories. By listing out examples of what “Show vs. Tell” means, we’ll gain a greater sense of what we have at our disposal, and how to create the stories that we want.
Telling
Now, you might ask why Telling is important. The tool itself can look simple, describing events in a straightforward manner, and to some, this can leave much to be desired within descriptions, emotions, and complexity. However, this can also be Telling’s greatest strength.
Telling doesn’t leave much up to debate. While describing information helps create a picture, sometimes a lot of detail without clarification can create numerous interpretations within the reader. Sometimes, this effect can be counterproductive, and obstruct the author’s intentions on where to put ambiguity and intention.
Let’s look at an example from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Bobok:
“There were fifteen hearses, with palls varying in expensiveness; there were actually two catafalques. One was a general's and one some lady's. There were many mourners, a great deal of feigned mourning and a great deal of open gaiety.” (Bobok)
The quote shows a lot of detail. Readers can interpret that there’s a funeral, or at least an important person’s funeral. We see that a general is attending, so perhaps the person being mourned was of high status and died from war. There is a group of mourners, who might be relatives or maybe not. We don’t know from this paragraph alone.
A lot of this creates a setting, but not context as to why the locations are this way.
Let’s compare it to an example of Telling from the same story:
“I went out in search of diversion, I hit upon a funeral. A distant relation—a collegiate counsellor, however. A widow and five daughters, all marriageable young ladies…Their father managed it, but now there is only a little pension.” (Bobok)
Here is where Telling’s strengths grow clear. Through direct sentences, Fyodor Dostoevsky can describe to us what the situation is. There’s a funeral for the narrator’s distant relation. The person was a collegiate counsellor, a governmental appointee in 1700s Russia. We know that everyone attending the funeral is related to the deceased, what their backstories are, and even how the narrator is using his time here as a distraction from his problems.
Telling, as a tool, reinforces important information on pacing, setting, clarification of details, and story direction. It cuts to the chase on what should be known to the reader, and what they need to keep in mind. This can extend to also scenes that might not be of importance. A story isn’t going to talk about a hero’s morning routine unless that morning routine is important to document—or if you’re Patrick Bateman.
Without Telling, it's hard to discern what is up and what is down.
Pros: Helps increase pacing; confirms details; clarifies details; helps narrative direction; helps with the reader’s comprehension of the scene.
Cons: Might avoid heavy details and description; can make ambiguity obvious rather than thought about; can make implications or thoughts too direct.
Showing:
While I had been critical of Showing, that doesn’t mean it’s unimportant as a tool. Telling is great with direction and clarification, however, it might not give readers the satisfaction to think critically during scenes. Readers want to be trusted with connecting details. Telling can be able to do that, but there is a love towards subtler information than what occurs with direct sentences.
For instance, in the Showing of Bobok, we as the readers pondered why there were fifteen hearses, and why a general decided to attend the funeral. These are details that allow the audience to work alongside the narrator in understanding how the story’s world works. The audience wants to know why things are happening and what it could mean, which leads to ambiguous, yet thought-provoking theories on what the reader can see. There’s a trust with the author on slowing down, and letting people be part of a sensory experience.
Here is another example from the book Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin, where the character Alabaster is introduced:
“He stands on a hill not far from the Black Star’s obsidian walls…He closes his eyes and savors the faint tremolo of [a nearby group of women’s] voices, the fainter reverberation of their footsteps like the wingbeats of butterflies against his sessapinae.” (Jemisin 4)
This paragraph stands out for a few reasons. In this story, the writing allows for the narrative’s pace to slow down and hone into this specific scene. The reader senses what is going on through the use of sensory details and figurative speech, which frame a wider visual process. These details listed can be from the Black Star’s obsidian walls, the way Alabaster describes footsteps as butterfly wingbeats, etcetera.
In describing how Alabaster senses the women, the reader understands that there’s a supernatural quality to him. He doesn’t just listen to the women, he feels their vibrations against the earth, and how melodic their voices are in their speech patterns. Word choices like “tremolo” and “savors” give scenes distinct clues to hone in on. Why does he connect to the world through sound like that? Is it to show he’s in his element? Will it foreshadow things down the line? What the heck does he mean by sessapinae?
Showing gives the narrative a way to signal to the reader when a scene is slowing down and needs to be given attention. Details are being used here to reinforce what Telling has established and gives weight to it. Similar to its counterpart, Showing also signifies implications in the narrative through specific word choices.
All of this allows for investment and intrigue in the story.
Pros: Helps slow down the pacing; focuses on details in a scene; allows the reader to feel sensory input of the world; gives the reader to think critically on what details imply.
Cons: Might not give direction on where the story is going; a lot of Showing can slow the pacing down incredibly; can become too ambiguous if not done correctly; additional details that might not be needed in the story.
Why Is This Important?
“Show, Don't Tell” has had a history with the writing community, one that creates expectations on what is considered normalized or the gold standard in literature.
The advice remains uncontested in appreciating visual storytelling, and there are justified reasons why people enjoy the technique. However, these types of advice—where a specific way of writing is bad, and another way to write is good—are binary. They don't allow nuance into conversations and place these techniques into ranks of quality. This can be detrimental to an author's experimentation with the written form, or skew perceptions on how used Showing is compared to Telling.
One of the most misinterpreted assumptions about “Show, Don't Tell” is with its potential origins, Anton Chekhov.
Anton Chekov has great examples of intention. He’s both a master at details and setting direction. However, he has been quoted before as an advocate of “Show, Don't Tell” due to past quotations.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
These quotations are incomplete, however.
In The Unknown Chekhov: Stories & Other Writings of Anton Chekhov, we find the same origin of the quote but expanded upon. This time, we find that Chekhov isn't lambasting the form of Telling, but focuses more on the clarity of one's visuals, saying that:
“In descriptions of Nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes he gets a picture. For instance, 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.” (Chekhov 14).
In this quote, he encourages writers to create descriptions, but doesn't say Telling is a problematic structure to follow. Looking into Anton’s writing, he focuses more on a mixture of both Showing and Telling, rather than what people assume. Many writers follow these principles as well, in particular Western classics such as The Count of Monte Cristo, or Crimes and Punishment.
As an exercise, read through the books on your shelves, and try to discern how much Showing coincides with Telling. One would find that Telling is a crucial part of writing, and removing it creates a series of problems that can conflict with one's writing execution.
However, exceptions always exist; “Show, Don't Tell” didn't become a fan favorite out of the blue, after all.
The problem comes in when writers limit their expectations on storytelling. When writers make advice that starts with “Don't do this” or “Don't do that” it grows hard-set limits, and the most affected writers would be from marginalized and POC.
Vietnamese author, Viet Thanh Nguyen's, article titled “Viet Thanh Nguyen Reveals How Writers’ Workshops Can Be Hostile”, describes these rules as narrow and Western-centric. He claims that the pedagogies found in creative writing workshops don't instill values of learning, but more so exclusion of different written forms—and, in extension, communities who aren't white. He claims that:
“As an institution, the workshop reproduces its ideology, which pretends that ‘Show, don’t tell’ is universal, when it is, in fact, the expression of a particular population, the white majority.” (Nguyen)
This observation has been noted down by other marginalized authors too. Some notable essays such as Amy Tan’s “Mother Tongue” and Craft In the Real World by Matthew Salesses ask who dictates the stories we read, and what rules are selected. It’s a complex situation since even contemporary rules on storytelling can conflict with Western classics, where stories like Hamlet include once made-up slang that is now used to this day, or J.R.R. Tolkien's love of exposition over his new favorite tree or historical event. Telling has always been here within folktales, epics, and literature, but shouldn't be underestimated in current novels.
As writers, we should strive to understand the storytelling techniques that we have. By dissecting the mechanics of Showing and Telling, writers can break through the boundaries of gatekeeping, and display their stories in how they see fit.
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