Yesterday, we learned a great tip for following the essential writing advice, “Show, Don't Tell.” Today, we're going to continue to work on showing instead of telling with this writing prompt.
What Does Show, Don't Tell Mean?
Showing vs. telling is the difference between a film and your best friend telling you the latest news about her love life.
Showing brings your reader into your story. It allows them to see what your character is seeing, smell what she's smelling, experience what she's experiencing. How do you show instead of telling? You use the following storytelling elements:
- Action
- Dialogue
- Sensory detail (description)
And you avoid the following storytelling elements:
- Inner monologue
- Exposition/Narrative
Need some examples of each? Check out our post, 5 Elements of Storytelling.
Sometimes Show, Don't Tell is Bad Advice
Showing has it's limitations.
As we talked about in our post, The Secret to Show, Don't Tell, the more you show, the longer your narrative becomes. This is fine for important, high conflict scenes, but what about when your main character gets a cup of coffee or has a conversation with the postman about the weather? Do you really need to show then? Of course not!
Show, don't tell is important, but too much showing and your story will start to feel like a home movie: slow and sloppily edited. (Share that on Twitter?)
Effective telling is one of your best tools as a writer, and one of the things that sets books apart from movies and television. Don't be afraid to tell! Just remember to show when it matters.
Ready to practice showing instead of telling?
PRACTICE
Write about the way you or your character feels. Use only action, dialogue or sensory detail. Avoid using any feeling words, like happy, sad, tired.
Write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to give feedback to a few other writers.
Here’s an excerpt my my WIP, Blood Line, with sensory experience related in the third person.
Even before Lamartine reached the murder room, the metallic copper stench was so strong it made him gag and he had to cover it with a cough. Crime scene workers normally gagged from the odor of overripe corpses or bodily waste and fluids that leaked out after death. For Lamartine, it was the blood.
He paused in the doorway and used his acute senses in place of his sightless eyes to make a mental map of the room. He started on his left and systematically moved his mind around the room, picking up scents and voices and, using a kind of echolocation, identifying furniture and other large objects. The crew clustered around a body, the obvious source of blood. There was a powerful scent of mint in the air.
As Lamartine edged inside, the photographer backed up to take a full scene shot and bumped into him. The photog muttered “Shit. What’re you doing there? You’re in the
way.” The guy exuded the sharp smell minty gum, which made it easier for
Lamartine to keep track of him and stay out of range of his lens. The dhampyr
wouldn’t show up in the picture anyway, but why even stir up a situation he
might have to explain.
Nancy, how original! Love that name, Lamartine. Very cool idea, to have a blind, dhampyr detective, who can’t stand the smell of blood. And he uses echolocation like a bat. Very good setup for an totally new story.
I’m glad you like him. He’s a complex, wounded being. He’s named after Alphonse de Lamartine, late 18th century French poet. My favorite Lamartine quote:
Limited in his nature, infinite in his desire, man is a fallen god who remembers heaven.
For the dhampyr, being fully human and accepting its limitations is his idea of heaven.
What a rich back story, and a cool source of inspiration
Very nice. I agree, the character is very unique. A blind, dhampyr, detective, now that makes for a super interesting character.
Thanks. I’m just wondering how many people had to look up what a dhampyr is. (I knew, of course, what the character was. I didn’t know it had a name.)
Callum brushed his fingertips against his mother’s forehead. Her skin was dry and hot. She shifted slightly on her pillow, but didn’t open her eyes. Callum looked away, then looked back. He leaned forward to touch his lips to her cheek, wishing for some sign
she knew he was there.
“Mother,” he began, “I haven’t always been a good son. I can’t ever make up for that.” Her breathing was low and steady. He closed his eyes. “All those years…,” and now his voice was barely audible, trailing off. The window was shut, the curtains drawn. Callum stiffly rose from his stool and pushed the curtain aside, twisted the brass latch and tried to raise the wooden sill, but it was swollen and stuck after years of disuse and age and weather. The more he pushed the more it resisted until at last he gave up. He turned once again to his mother’s still form under the counterpane tucked around her unnaturally. Her withered hands lay useless. “I wish..” he started. Then he looked again at the window. “If only I could open this window, you could fly out of it….and up to heaven.”
Jay, that’s good showing, not telling. I can feel his regret, pain, and longing. And something futile about his life. Good job!
thank you Avril
Here’s my WIP for my novel “Messed Up Minds”.
I stared at the coffin the sleek wood, wet from the fat raindrops trialling from the bleak sky. The Eulogist finally finished and the rest of the guests slowly made their way to their cars after paying their respects.
“You need a ride kid?” Tom a friend of my dads gave me a weak smile of smythany.
“No thanks I’d like to be alone Tom.” He nodded and left me as I watched him pile into his car with his family. I sat next to the freshly dug grave with the grave that laid next to it sticking out like a new flower in the sea of old and some crumbling headstones.
The new marble headstone letters read. ” Samson Beatr Born June 10th 1967 Died August 21st 2014 RIP.” I traced the letters reambering the nooks and crannys. The other headstone was covered in moss on it “Lucy Beatr Born November 5th 1972 Died December 5th 2007.”
I sighed and opened a bottle of coke and took a long sip.
“Hope you like Heaven Dad.” I grinned. “I know I would.” I said quietly. The day had been filled with pure sorrowful tragic feelings, heart ache is probably a better word. I barley spoke a word, just a weak tearful smile and nodding.
I sighed and laid on the soft grass running my hands though the soft earth as the soothing pit pat pit fell next to me.
I closed my eyes imagining life where your wasn’t turned into a nightmare, where everday was greeted with enthusiasm and eagerness not apprehension.
A girl can dream can’t she.
This is a continuation of a short story I’m working on, “Another Man’s Hell”. I’ve posted a few installments for practices. We’ve met Preston and Yvonne, bad husband/good wife, and they died together in a crash. Preston woke up on a ladder in a dark place, fell off, and landed on the soggy banks of a black lake, where a creepy guy is right now trying to coax him into a rowboat. My practice for today is the next installment:
Yvonne woke up on a ladder. She could tell by her shadow that the sun was up behind her, and the bright midday light illuminated the sheer rock wall the ladder rested against. Looking from side to side, she saw that, on her ladder perch, she was standing higher than the mountain peaks in the distance. When she looked down, her eye followed the ladder as it disappeared into the thick carpet of mist below. Yvonne did not look up. There was nowhere else to go. The ladder felt sturdy, and she easily held the sides securely in her grip, so she scrambled up alongside the sheer cliff.
As Yvonne stepped up the last few rungs, her head was high enough to look over the edge of the cliff. She hesitated for a moment. There had been no signs of snow on the cliff, yet as she peeked over the rocky ledge, she saw a great meadow covered in fresh snow. The meadow was pristine and silent, though she noticed there was something different in the way the sun reflected off the surface. She hurried to climb all the way up, and stand on the rocks, looking down at the meadow just a few feet below.
She studied the white expanse below her, and watched the sun play on the crystals. To the left, the meadow was bordered by a glossy green pine forest. Directly ahead of her, and to the right, her view was obscured by a light mist that lingered at the edges. Yvonne’s eyes detected movement, yet she could not quite catch where it was coming from. As she scanned the meadow, she gradually realized that the light played on the snow here in a way she had not seen before. It did not pick up individual pinpoints of sparkle. Rather, the light actually appeared to emanate from beneath the snow, and moved across the clearing like a liquid rainbow of pearlized colors.
Without thinking, Yvonne jumped into the snow, and landed on her back. Laughing and giggling, she made snow angels until she saw someone approaching. She stopped and sat up, and noted that, although the clothes on her back felt wet, she was neither hot nor cold. The snow she was sitting on was a fine, brilliant white powder, with no discernible temperature.
The stranger continued to walk toward her. Yvonne couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, as the clothing was a simple robe, tied at the waist like a monk’s attire. The hood was pulled up over the head. The figure walked slightly stooped, looking downward. When the unknown person had nearly reached the spot where Yvonne sat, she stood up. As she did so her visitor quickly looked up. Still unable to determine if she was meeting a man or a woman, Yvonne studied the face. She saw many wrinkles, a kindly, gentle smile, and eyes that reflected the sky and sun like mirrors.
I love how you use your setting to convey a more positive tone. I’m guessing that you’re using your setting and the man to create a heaven-like place. Brilliant!
Thanks Lauren. Yes, I’ve described a hell-like place, and a heaven-like place. Oooh but it’s not that simple. Yvonne and Preston will meet again, and all may not be as it seems…I hope you and everyone else will enjoy this story as it unfolds.
I’ll be sure to keep my eyes open 😉
I absolutely loved it!
Thank you Chloee!
Great stuff.
Wow! Just wow.
Wonderful writing, lovely and visual. Love how you’ve used the setting as an integral part of the story.
Thanks Diane, very specific feedback is very helpful to me.
This was a nice way to put off my homework 🙂
A dusty mirror stood on the weathereddresser, reflecting the cobwebs and dead spiders dangling from the ceiling. Moonlight pooled into the room through the balcony, casting a silver shadow on the black wood. It wasn’t originally black. When they bought the house ten years ago it was a brilliant cherry that gleamed in the daylight and sparkled in the starlight. Years of ignorance let the color fade and contort into a dark, morbid ebony. No one came into the room after that dreary Thursday morning. It was
as if it too, was part of a grave.
“James… I miss you so much.”
The words were soft, rough, and nearly inaudible. Prisoners from a tight throat blazing from the effort of holding back tears. There was a girl in the mirror. Through the dust one could make out limp, coal colored hair that draped over a pale, tightened face contorted into a grotesque mask. It reflected a body made from skin stretched over a frame of bone, with scars dancing up and down willowy limbs. The girl looked up,
bright eyes sparkling in the cloudy glass.
“I think I understand why you did it, all those years ago. I think I do understand… it was very brave, what you did. I’m sorry for hating you for it.”
Her gaze drifted across an unmade bed, a desk with a book left open at THE END, a picture of a boy with russet colored hair and a wide smile, until it reached the balcony.
Two white doors were cast open, curtains weaving ever so slightly with an autumn breeze. The girl did not see these things. Instead she saw her brother, leaning against the iron rail of the balcony, his chin pressed against his chest. And she saw him jump, and she saw the letter on the desk, and she heard the quick snap of bone on pavement.
She gazed into the mirror, cocking her head ever so slightly to the right. She tried on a smile that couldn’t touch her eyes. She tried to hold her lips steady, tried to keep her hands from shaking. A breath was taken and then her sobs echoed through the empty night, everyone within earshot fast asleep. She gazed in the mirror and saw a monster, someone who could never replace him. She was too fat they said, then too small. She did not do enough and did too much. She cried too much, but her veins weren’t
allowed to cry for her.
The girl stopped, bit her lip intosubmission, blinked her tears away. “I will not cry any more. I cannot cry anymore. I’ve had enough.”
So the girl placed her own letter on the desk, and walked onto the balcony. A low, moaning wind arose from nowhere and spun around the dusty room, the book flipping back to Once upon a time.
She held her chin up high and watched the balcony grow smaller and smaller until she felt her brother’s arms around her.
“I’ve missed you.” he said.
The girl smiled and took his hand.
“I’ve missed you too.”
I’m so glad you put off your homework. This is evocative and lovely. What did James do? Why did she hate him for it? What is the significance of the scarring?
Thank you so much! I’ll answer your questions to the best of my ability.
1. What did James do?
Two white doors were cast open, curtains weaving ever so slightly with
an autumn breeze. The girl did not see these things. Instead she saw her
brother, leaning against the iron rail of the balcony, his chin pressed
against his chest. And she saw him jump, and she saw the letter on the
desk, and she heard the quick snap of bone on pavement.
I was trying to make the girl relive her brother’s suicide here, where she looks at the empty balcony and sees him jump again. James killed himself when he was the girl’s age, which dramatically impacted her life because of the guilt she felt for not being able to stop him, her close relationship with him, and the void her family expected her to fill. Which brings me to your next question…
2. Why did she hate him for it?
James was her older brother, in my mind. I pictured them as being close, he was her hero. Their parents may be terrible, they may be foster kids, something slightly traumatic bonded them together. So naturally, the girl should feel abandoned, deserted, helpless when her hero kills himself. He made her life a living h***. She would wake up the next morning blissfully unaware, and then the realization of his death would hit her and crush her. Their parents would expect her to step up to the plate and be perfect, always comparing her to him. I think it would be natural to hate someone for abandoning you and inflicting that amount of pain.
3. What is the significance of the scarring?
As a 14 year old, I sometimes forget that adults aren’t in high school, and aren’t aware o some of the horrors that walk beside us every day. Basically, the scars are self inflicted wounds. The mentality behind hurting yourself is a distraction from emotional pain and to feel alive again. Cutting/Burning/Bruising, it’s all described as having a numbing effect on the mind and an awakening sense on the body. It’s terrible. The girl became so sick of being hurt, she hurt herself so she could feel better mentally, and that was her way of dealing with James’ death.
*Shudder* Just so you know, from 9/11 reports I remember reports of bodies hitting the pavement with the force of, as one witness called it, “the sound of an anvil hitting inside a dumpster.” Other reports involved loud booms. I’m not sure you’d hear bones breaking over the other, louder noise.
OMG! Are you only fourteen? What a future you have in writing. What a future we all have reading your stories. Wow!
That’s mortifying… I just shivered all over.
Hehe, yes I’m only 14, and thank you so much!!
Very creepy Lauren! You did a marvelous job of showing here. I especially liked how you use the objects in the room to set the mood. My favorite was the book open to “the end.” Well done!
The words flow out of my partly shut down brain. My fingers have a mind of their own. Unkept nails click the keyboard as my brain calls for me to lay down, wrap the blue blanket around my neck, and join the world where imagination lives.
My eyes burn with need. Sleep.
Good night…
This is good, Joy, but also a little abstract, for example, “The words flow out of my… brain,” and, “my brain calls for me to lay down.” You can’t exactly show that on film, you know what I mean? It’s not necessarily bad to be abstract. In fact it’s one of the things that makes writing unique, but it is important to know the difference between that and showing concrete detail. Does that make sense?
Screenplay version of Show-Don’t-Tell :0)
Through the glass walls of the Tower into the immense, oval
room. Ultramodern, lavish deco. Sheer curtains gently sway
under the breeze. It feels serene, yet fragile, unsettling.
Adam tosses under the silk cover at the edge of the colossal
bed. He jolts up as if struck by a sudden, acute pain,
moans, clutches his head, plummets back to bed, seemingly
unconscious.
ON HAND
Perfect, straight from Michelangelo’s painting, as it slowly
lingers over EVE’S dipping, blissful body indulged in a
semi-translucent, lavender lingerie.
The fingers gently slide along the curve of her hip… onto
her firm breast line… drift up her neck… brush up her
plump, slightly parted lips.
Eve, in her mid-20’s, cascade of the raven-blue hair unrolls
over the crusty bed sheet underneath her pallid, sculptured
face. Her emerald eyes a wacky mix of insanity, sexuality
and innocence. She softly moans.
Her hands above her head firmly grappled by PLAYBOY’S hand.
He leans for a kiss, she turns away as she casts a sorrow
glance at Adam, peaceful at last at the far end of the same
bed.
Great action and description. Interesting, almost surreal scene here. Great stuff!
Thanks Joe, cool. Yes, it’s a Sci/Fi movie.
I appreciate your comments. :0)
Hello, I’m new here. Also new to writing. Here’s what I came up with after 15 minutes.
The table thumped. The thoroughly calloused leather that covered his hands, was no match for an oak surface, and the inch long sliver of wood sticking from his knuckles, did little to dissuade him from repeating the mistake. After the third gory punch he settled down into his chair, letting his arms dangle between his legs, as blood dripped from deep cuts into a puddle at his feet.
“I loved her,” he said. His voice was gravel. Tears mixed with dust left trails of mud down his face. He hummed a sorrowful tune and rocked back and forth. The chair creaked with each shift of his body. The moments passed. The smell of blood and his unwashed body mingled, and filled the cabin with the scent of desolation.
William, you’ve used lovely visuals in your piece. I especially liked the one of the man rocking back and forth in what appears to be grief, but I wanted a little more orientation. Nice work, and thanks for sharing.
Gray brick by gray brick, spindly rebar by dusty board, steel nail, and thick mortar, slowly the structure stretches skyward. Bearded men, brawny and streaming sweat, pick away at the task. Burly yellow machines belch black smoke, along with mounds of oozing concrete onto metal slabs and wooden planks. Groaning and pushing, their wheels life off the ground, straining their capacities.
Cranes, like the birds whose name they bear, lift unbearable loads from here to there, and quickly, as the hourly charge is steep and the operator a master. With each passing hour, the building rises, widens, its form and layout changing shape, as it takes shape.
The workmen like each other, it seems, from this vantage – my small office at the periphery. Their laughter is raucous, bawdy; they bump broad shoulders; and share drinks of water. Camaraderie. I watch the movement, the process, and monitor their progress, and the grimy faces of the men perhaps to glimpse their stories beneath the hardhats, behind the eyes.
An old workman drags a broom over newly a poured cement surface, his leathered face bent low, intent on the work he had done for more than half a century. Close by, a surly young man watches, his lip curled. He leans in close to the new cement, dragging on the last of a cigarette. As he saunters off, he shrugs and flicks the butt at the feet of the old man. F–king loser, he thinks.
Leaving heavily on the broom, the old man watches the young man disappear into the crowd. He breathes through the pain in his lower back and bends down and picks the cigarette from the wet concrete. Prick, he thinks.
I like this a lot. Very nice description of the work site and the men. I like the play between the younger and older man at the end. I like how you described the old man’s face as leather. I like the adjectives you use, but it seems that you have a lot of “B” words going on here. “bearded, brawny, burly, belch black, bawdy, broad …….might want to mix it up a little bit.
The simile about the crane seemed a bit off. I don’t know if “unbearable” is the right word. A crane (the bird) can’t pick up an unbearable load and if the load was unbearable the crane (the machine) wouldn’t be able to pick it up. Also I’m not sure about using “as”. “because the hourly charge is steep” might work better there.
Again I really enjoyed the story looking forward to reading more of your work.
Thank you, William, for reading the piece and for your suggestions. All those “B: words went unnoticed as I wrote. Two weeks ago, I did witness a crane near Monterey Bay hoist and jockey some kind of what I assumed to be a giant fish, one that lookedto be an unbearable load for that bird. Somehow that siting worked its way into this. Perhaps a little further study of the words on my part is in order.
Again, thank you.
Been a while since I posted here. Let’s see if I’ve improved any:
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Jennifer pulled up to the rusty gates of the abandoned amusement park and shut off the engine of her tan Isuzu Rodeo. She gazed through her windshield at the dark land. A derelict rollercoaster, with a couple cars frozen at the peak of a drop, was silhouetted against the moon. Her eyes trailed the forlorn ruin, noting the sections of missing track. She shook herself and glanced around outside her truck once more. There was no sign of her friend. ‘That’s odd. Danni is more punctual than this. I’m the late one to our meeting places.’
She pulled her phone out to check the text requesting the meeting here again. ‘Jen, meet me at the old FunZone Amusement park at 8pm. I have something you’ll want to see.’ The cell chirped, and the screen when dark. “Damn it. I forgot to charge. Grrr,” she said. She leaned over to the glove box and felt around. Her fingers slid over crumpled parking tickets, napkins, a dried out doughnut, and the cool metal of the handgun her friend Rob had given her. He’d called it a USP Tactical and said it was easy to conceal. She leaned over and attempted to look into the glove compartment, but it was too dark to see inside. She reached out and opened the passenger side door. The dome light came on as the sound of crickets entered. The gun blocked her view of the inside, so she pushed it aside. No charger. ‘Shit. I must have forgotten to grab it on my way out the door this morning.’
Jennifer sighed, and pulled the door shut. At the same time, she slammed the glove box shut. She got out and glanced around. The wind moved through the woods, shaking tree branches, and making shadows dance in the moonlight. Still no sign of her best friend. An owl hooted, making her jump. She leaned against the truck, her hand over her racing heart. A rhythmic squeaking caught her attention. When she glanced back to the interior of the amusement park, something darted by. The sudden movement in her peripheral vision caused her to turn to look, as her breath caught in her chest. Her gasp
turned into a brief coughing fit.
She regained control of her breathing, and opened her truck once more. She reached under the seat and grabbed the flashlight. As she turned it on, she registered what she’d done, and smacked herself on the forehead. ‘I could have used this when looking for my charger. Dummy.’ She shone the light in the direction of the movement, and became aware the crickets no longer made a sound. The flashlight swung in short, quick arcs, following the motion of her eyes. She took a slow step back. The crunch of gravel underfoot seemed like miniature explosions to her sharpened senses. A wolf howled, startling her. She screamed and dropped her light which broke on the ground.
‘Shit.’ She squatted, gathering the pieces in the moonlight. ‘Get a hold of yourself. If you can handle being attacked by a couple hood rats, you can handle a wolf howling in the distance.’ The hood rats in question had been intending her to be their initiation into the local order of the Four-Nines, a ruthless gang of drug runners. She’d surprised the young girls by being more vicious than they, and as they put it, “Not fighting fair.” Two on one was fair game, though, it seemed. As Rob had taught, a quick knee to the groin of the closer girl had persuaded her to lose interest in continuing.
A short jab to the voice box had made the other one lose interest as well, also
as he’d instructed.
Jennifer reassembled the flash, and flicked the switch. Nothing. ‘Did I put the batteries in right?’ She removed the top and reversed them. This time the flashlight came on. At the same time, something heavy thumped onto the roof of the truck. She whipped the light up to see what made the noise. The air left her lungs in
a rush as an enormous black wolf was revealed. The animal’s eyes glowed yellow in the beam. The wolf’s upper lip curled up, showing gleaming fangs as it snarled at her. Woman and wolf stared at each other for an unknown amount of time. Their standoff ended when she took a slow step back. The sound of gravel being compacted under her foot caused the wolf to spring at her.
She screamed, and threw her arms over her face, certain she was going to die.
Finn kept blinking his heavy eye lids. He leaned against the railing as he made his way up from the stairs. His mind focusing on the warmth of his soft navy blue blanket and bed just to keep him from just collapsing on the spot. He yawned and stumbled his way onto his door . His vision blurred making everything distorted . He managed to find his keys and he entered his apartment and locked the door behind him . A sudden burst of energy surged through him as his bed came into view . He kicked of his shoe and collapsed onto the bed . He slipped off his shirt and pants and bundled himself up into a blanket . His eyes closed and his body relaxed into a deep sleep.