Mary Rosenblumm Long Ridge Web Editor, is the author of three SF novels, four Mysteries, and more than 50 published short stories in multiple genres, as well as nonfiction pieces.

by Mary Rosenblum

‘Show, don’t tell!’ How many times have we read that admonition in books on writing? How many times has a writing teacher scribbled that crimson command in the margin of a story? So what does it really mean? A lot of beginning writers really aren’t sure, no matter how many times they have heard the words.

Remember the last time you found yourself so immersed in a book that you forget that you were sitting on the living room sofa? Instead, for awhile, you are ducking branches in Sherwood Forest, or crouching in the shadows as a ghostly leopard creeps along the garden wall. When we ‘show’ the action in a story to the reader, we are inviting that reader to step into the scene, to see what our Point of View character sees, to hear what he or she hears, to smell wet grass and the metallic tang of ozone as the storm approaches. By letting our reader see, hear, smell, taste, and make judgements about what is going on around them, we help them to lose track of that living room sofa beneath them, and to feel goose-bumps on their necks as the leopard suddenly coughs behind them. We achieve that by making the reader forget that anyone is telling them a story. Instead, they are living it.

So how do we disappear, to leave our reader and characters alone on the stage? You do that by making sure that the reader never hears your voice, as author.

Andrea walked into the room. She was cold and tired and was afrad that the immature sophomore, Allan, wouldn’t show up after all. If he didn’t show up, he would be expelled, and they would certainly lose the polo match with Brightwood. The Crest Hill School couldn’t afford to lose. If they did, the Holtzmans, wealthy patrons of the school, would withdraw their donation as they had threatened and the school might have to close. So who is telling this story? I am. The author. I’m telling you how Andrea felt, that she is cold and tired. I’m telling you about the school and the importance of the polo win and who the Holtzmans are. We’re not really deep inside Andrea’s POV, although she is probably our POV character. You, reader, don’t have to do any work here. I’m spoon feeding you everything you need to know. Now let me invite you into the room with Andrea:

Andrea peered into the empty room. No Allan. She shivered, pulling the damp shirt close around her. The stupid kid wasn’t going to show. Roberts would kick the punk out after all, and they’d lose the match for sure. None of them could stand up to that jerk Paulson with his fancy ponies. Although his mallet work really was hot. But he was still a jerk. Andrea shook her damp hair back from her face, a tide of resignation rising inside her. So it was over. The Hotzmans would take their money back and the school would close. She’d be sent home, and she’d never see Brian again.

So what is the difference here? I haven’t told you anything. The exposition is in Andrea’s vocabulary, with her word choices, and her preoccupations. We know she is cold because she shivers and we guess she’s chilled. She doesn’t think ‘the school couldn’t afford to lose’ because she wouldn’t talk to herself like that, she knows who the Holtzmans are, so she isn’t going to remind herself that they’re wealthy patrons, and she’s as much concerned about Brian as she is about the school closing. We’re overhearing her thoughts. Allan is a stupid kid, not an immature sophomore. Paulson is a jerk. This is how she thinks. She doesn’t even mention polo, why should she? She knows what match she’s worrying about! But she acknowledges that Paulson’s mallet work and fancy ponies will affect the outcome. I’m assuming that nearly all readers will be able to figure out for themselves that she is talking about polo.

There’s the trick. Make your prose interactive. By that, I mean you should let the reader figure things out for himself. Let that person guess it is a polo match being discussed here. Let him assume she’s cold from her shivers. Let him get his first introduction to Allan as a ‘stupid kid’, ‘a punk’. Maybe, when we meet Allan later we’ll decide we rather like him, and then we’ll change our opinion about Andrea. That’s how we do it in real life. There is no voice-over. There is no quiet narrator whispering in our ears, "If Allan doesn’t show up, he’ll be expelled." We are making the reader work, and that is exactly how we acquire information and make judgements every day. We stand at that cocktail party and hear snatches of conversation, watch brief interchanges between fellow employees, put together a few clues, and decide for ourselves what is really going on. So don’t spoonfeed your readers! Give them selected facts – conversation, character thoughts, visual details, and let them put the story together. Of course you, the writer, must give the reader the right details, so that the reader puts together the story that you wish to tell! By doing this, we allow the reader to share in the storytelling process. This becomes the reader’s story, as well as ours.

Let the character ‘show’ the action to the reader. In effect, climb into your POV character’s head, get settled, and look through his or her eyes. What does he see? What does he look at first when he comes into the room? What does he think about as he looks around. He doesn’t describe the living room as if he’s writing a piece for a home-decorating magazine. He’s looking for the vanished necklace and he’s been in Victoria’s bedroom a dozen times before. So he only notices the details that matter. The cluttered dresser dusted with spilled facepowder. Nope. Not there. The untidy pile of discarded blouses, jeans, and underwear caught his eye and he began to paw through it, kicking aside the tangle of satin sheets trailing from the oversized bed. Notice that we only see details that are in his immediate focus. The walls may be covered with wisteria-printed wallpaper, but if he has no reason to notice the wallpaper, he won’t really see it and neither will we.

If Aunt Jessica appears in the doorway behind him to catch him ransacking Victoria’s room, he doesn’t know she’s there unless he catches sight of her in the mirror, or turns around to face her. What is out of his sight, out of his hearing, is out of our sight and hearing, too.

If you write your scene like this, seeing through the characater’s eyes, you will show us the scene. Every time you add a bit of description, ask yourself whose voice is this? If it’s your voice, show us instead. Instead of telling us ‘Penny was a happy girl’, just let us watch her greeting her school friends, cheerful, optimistic, full of fun. You don’t need to tell us. Clearly she’s a happy girl. Get a character to speak for you: ‘Oh, Penny, you’re always so happy!"

Choose your details carefully, and you don’t need to add a lot of extra words in order to show us. A picture is worth a thousand words, remember? A single shiver tells us ‘she is cold’. A yawn can tell us ‘he was bored’. Use your character’s voice and vocabulary for your descriptions and exposition. She shivered, pulling the damp shirt close around her. The stupid kid wasn’t going to show after all. Even though you, the author, are really telling us this, we’ll hear the character’s voice instead of yours, and we won’t be reminded that we’re sitting on that sofa.

Show us the story. Invite us into your world, and we’ll follow you anywhere you take us!