Show, don’t tell – the most common bit of writing wisdom in the realm of fiction writing (probably).
If you’ve ever googled writing advice (I’m sure you have, otherwise you wouldn’t be here), it wouldn’t have taken long before you were told to show the events in your story and that telling is bad, bad, bad.
What if I were to tell you telling isn’t bad?
And that, sometimes, it’s even preferable?
Well, I’m about to do just that.
But first, let’s unpack the difference between showing and telling.
Showing and telling – what’s the difference?
Showing is having the scene play out on the page, with the actions, reactions, dialogue, and the thoughts and sensations of the characters happening in real time. (The last two are restricted to the point-of-view (POV) character if you’re writing in anything but omniscient POV.) Not all these need including, though.
Take this scene from Becky Chambers’ The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet:
“This,” Corbin said, pointing a bony finger at the scrib [a type of personal, handheld computer], “has got to be a joke.”
“Let me guess,” Ashby said. “Jenks messed with your notes again?” Corbin frowned and shook his head. Ashby focused on the scrib, trying not to laugh at the memory of the last time Jenks had hacked into Corbin’s scrib, replacing the algaeist’s careful notes with three-hundred-and-sixty-two photographic variations of Jenks himself, naked as the day he was born. Ashby had thought the one of Jenks carrying a Galactic Commons banner was particularly good. It had a sort of dramatic dignity to it, all things considered.
Ashby picked up the scrib, flipping it screen-side up.
[a record of a resume for a new employee]
Ashby recognized the file. … “Why are you showing me this?” Ashby asked.
“Oh, so you have actually read it,” Corbin said.
“Of course I have. I told you all to read this file ages ago so you could get a feel for her before she arrived.” Ashby had no idea what Corbin was getting at, but this was Corbin’s standard operating procedure. Complain first, explain later.
Clearly, Corbin is pissed at the news of them getting a new employee. Yet nowhere does it outright say he was annoyed. His frustration leaks through his words and behaviour. We see Ashby’s reaction to Corbin’s grievances, and Ashby getting the reasoning wrong hints Corbin is a regular complainer. His reminiscing of Jenks’ previous antics, and thoughts towards them, show he doesn’t always empathise with Corbin or take him too seriously.
If this information was told, it could read something like this:
Corbin was angry. He pointed a bony finger at the scrib, complaining at something on it. Ashby asked if it was Jenks messing about with his notes again. He thought back to the time Jenks replaced his notes with three-hundred-and-sixty-two photographs of himself, naked as the day he was born. Ashby thought Corbin was always moaning over every little thing, and he should probably lighten up a little. He was wrong about why he was complaining this time, though. He was moaning about the new hire.
Both versions contain the same information, but the second one feels like a report, while the original feels more alive, more engaging, and more in the moment.
It’s the difference between writing ‘I had an argument with my friend’ and having the argument play out in real time, or writing ‘he was angry’ as opposed to writing the actions he does when he’s angry.
That’s not to say showing is always the better option. But before we get to when ‘telling’ works, let’s discuss when you should ‘show’.
When to show
Short answer: most of the time.
Readers want to experience the story as it plays out, not read a report of it.
Always ‘show’ your key scenes and when something important happens.
The more time you spend on something signals to the reader how important it is. If your character’s been falling in love with someone throughout the story, show them getting flustered in their presence, explore how they change themselves for their love interest. Don’t summarise them declaring their love. If they’ve been plotting revenge on someone who betrayed them for over half the novel, definitely have the moment they get revenge in scene, not gloss over it.
It can be easy to think something is a key scene because it’s well written and packs an emotional wallop. It’ll make the readers an emotional wreck, so it earns its place!
This isn’t always correct. Take the fight with the friend above. If the story is about exploring friendship, then this is a strong scene to keep. But if it’s not – if the fight doesn’t influence the story and the friend doesn’t appear again – it probably shouldn’t be shown as a scene (despite how compelling it may be).
The more time you spend on something signals to the reader how important it is.
When to tell
But showing can be overdone.
Enter Bob, an aspiring author who’s done the research and knows he should banish telling from his prose. He never writes it was warm outside; he rigidly sticks to his newfound knowledge and must write how the character experiences the sun’s rays on their skin, sweat beading at their brow.
If the character needs to travel from their room in the castle to the courtyard for sword practice, Bob shows them getting dressed, walking through the castle, admiring the paintings lining the walls, bumping into his comrades, and just about every detail he can think of.
And this is what happens when the advice ‘show, don’t tell’ is taken too literally: pacing grinds to a halt.
If the person needs to get from A to B for the story to progress, and nothing important happens on the journey, it’s perfectly fine to summarise the journey.
Not every emotion needs to have the accompanying signs shown. See how Nathan Ballingrud, a terrific writer, tells rather than shows in his novella Cathedral of the Drowned:
He could not. but she felt his yearning, felt his fear and his confusion, and felt, too, the consolation he experienced in finding her, even in this bewildering fashion. She fell back on the bed, frightened and confused herself, as much by the warmth that filled her body as by the weird presence.
Ballingrud tells us of them being scared and frightened, rather than showing it. This must mean it’s bad writing, right?
Not at all. Sure, maybe it would’ve been a little more engaging if the experience was shown, at the expense of economy. While her feelings are important, this scene is background information and a setup for the next scene; pacing was the goal, and dwelling on her emotional state would’ve slowed it down.
If the reader needs to know things that are important for context but otherwise irrelevant to the story, it’s better off being told.
This is what happens when the advice ‘show, don’t tell’ is taken too literally: pacing grinds to a halt.
Final thoughts...
One of the most common things I tell my clients isn’t show, don’t tell, but know when to do both – they both have their place.
Showing the majority of your scenes, especially your key ones, keeps the prose lively and engaging.
Telling supposedly makes the passage boring, but sometimes parts have to be boring and dry to quickly get to the juicy, exciting parts of the story. Showing the wrong thing is often far more tedious.
I hope this post helps you get the balance between showing and telling right for your story.
