Tag: Failure

Showing vs. Telling: Round One

I’ve always enjoyed a good bit of advice by way of adage, even if I’m not all too sure what it means:

“The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“You jiggle more with laughter than you do with lard.”

“Choke on a bone, don’t come home.”

“Show, don’t tell.”

You’ll come across that last one more than once. And you’ll tuck it away as fact. But what does it even mean? Make the assumption of fact an action at that.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Writing All Wrong:

I hear the “show vs. tell” mantra to know that telling something I shouldn’t be doing in writing. But should I? Doesn’t “telling” also have its place? How are they all that different. I figure you will have some smart answer to this so I await your response.

—Rachel Kovac, Thornton, Co.

Smart answer? Me? Maybe.

I’m going to take this one to two rounds, as there’s a lot of the arena to be covered. I’ll let “Telling” have its say in Round Two. But with “Showing,” here are a few key takeaways.

Showing is overrated.

Is it now? It’s a critical part of the narrator’s framework, but I think it gets too much time in the sun.

While it takes you from:

“Joe was scared.”

to:

“Joe’s face ghosted white, his chin quivering.”

Too often writers will go for the show gusto with:

“Joe’s face drained of color, leaving it a ghastly white. His chin and lips quivered incessantly, and bubbles of uncontrollable drool gurgled from behind his teeth. His whole head went clammy as a cold sweat broke out unbeckoned…”

All right, all right, we get it. Sho’ no’ mo’.

Show only what needs showing.

“Three uneven chairs surrounded the makeshift table. They were chipped in odd places, one on its back, the others within the seat. One of the chair legs had succumbed to some termites, while the other two looked just as wobbly by virtue of age and disrepair. Together, they made a trio of—”

We don’t need to know all about the dumb chairs. Are you showing? Sure, but it’s showing too much. Like the half-ton hirsute neighbor of yours who doffs his wife beater once he finds out the apartment pool is now open.

If you’re looking to improve this kind of lame writing, then make it compact. The first sentence would have done nicely.

Show what’s worth showing off.

“Bubble, the goldfish, flicked his shimmering fins within the sullen confines of the tank. His bulbous eyes flitted to and fro, darting this way and that, like he were searching for a lost treasure.”

Don’t care how much you’re trying, but showing me Bubble’s escapades in the tank isn’t going to take this story from the mundane to the transcendent. Show me everything you want about a story not worth telling, and you’re showing in vain. Now, if you took this approach:

“Bubble, the goldfish, flicked his shimmering fins within the sullen confines of the tank. The M1 Abrams afforded little in creature comforts—”

Stop. You win.

Show, but don’t overshow.

“The crazed zombie tumbled from the fridge. Paul yelled back in horror.”

The amateur stumbles here, inexpertly finding an area of improvement with the “yelled back in horror” part. Here’s what we get:

“The crazed zombie tumbled from the fridge. Paul shrieked with panicky terror.”

“Aha,” you may think, “shrieking shows the emotion so much better!” What about the tautology of “with panicky terror?” Yeah, not everyone catches that, unless there’s a way to shriek with “meted control,” or “disciplined effect.” And no, I don’t think anyone’s “shrieking with delight” at the sight of a refrigerated zombie.

Showing: simple, but elegant. Try too hard, and you’re trying too hard.

How do you make showing work for you and your writing?

(You can read the take on telling here: Showing vs. Telling: Round Two)

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).

5 Warning Signs of Being a Bad Writer

Everything happy in your lolly-jolly writersphere? Good for you! I like happiness.

Wait, come again? (Listens with intent). Oh dear. That’s why you’re happy? That puts you in the company of many a writer swimming in the blissful water of ignorance.

Close that pool.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

Serious question, Mr. All Wrong:

I feel like “I’m where I want to be” with my writing. Engaged within the writing community. Full of inspiration. Multiple projects going. Money! 

Why am I bothering with Writing All Wrong if everything is going All Write?

—Benjamin Stump, New Holland, Pa.

“Wherefore he that thinketh himself to stand, let him take heed lest he fall.” – Jesus.

I agree with Jesus here. With that, I give you five warning signs of being a bad writer:

1. Getting the formula down.

If you can crank out one hundred novels a year, then that’s impressive. What’s not impressive is when you boil it down to a science, a predictable formula. Formulaic is not how you want to be described. You have become no good writer when you reduce it to a soulless recipe, you soulless fiend. Shame. Slow down and create something worth writing.

2. None who challenge.

If everyone loves what you’re doing, then you must be doing it right. Of course. That makes sense, but it’s wrong. When you have no opposition left, be afraid. Be very afraid. The honest among you have fled, and you may be surrounded by cowards who will only appease your ego. But what are they doing to spur on excellence in writing? Nothing. Find at least one person who will be honest, one who will challenge. He or she may be the only one you know who will tell you truth you don’t want to hear. Truth that will make your writing better.

3. Embracing community over creation.

If you value the “writing community” over “writing,” then you have issue. Deep down, I can’t find why you’d want to be a writer. Just be a “social media friend!”What makes you happier: perfecting a narrative (or a sentence!) or getting a ton of retweets and blog comments from all the “friends” you made on the World Wide Internet? We all want to be affirmed. It’s that blasted weakness of ego within us. Re-align it somehow and get the focus back on the writing. Or be everyone’s friend if you want. Crapsucking writers love each other more than anyone.

4. Being a player, bringing no game.

Yes, you. “Writers” in quotes only. You “aspiring” writers. You who toot your own horns without having one to speak of. I’m glad that you identify yourself with writing. You now have two options: show it, or get busy on showing it. There’s a measure of forgiveness to those who bring an amateur’s game to a pro’s court, sure, but there’s no forgiveness for those who “wear that jersey” and don’t come to play.

5. Writing wonderfully in your own mind.

Even the best writer knows he can make his writing better. If you’ve put yourself on top a nice little pedestal, and no one (lesser or greater) can take you down, then it’s a little pedestal indeed. That first draft should be your worst draft. As should the second, third, whatever. Crave improvement, refinement. When you don’t, you begin the journey to the Dark Side of Bad Writing.

What other warnings have you had to heed to keep from the sin of Bad Writing?

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).

You Don’t Need to Make Your Characters “Relatable”

“I loved reading this book! I felt like it spoke to me, because I could relate to the main character.”

Reading appraisals like this makes me want to shoot the author and poison the reader. It’s not vicious enough to be a vicious cycle. It’s mediocrity feeding mediocrity.

That’s why we’re Writing All Wrong.

How do I make my main character more relatable to my readers?

—Jan Craig, Winston-Salem, N.C.

I’d tell you, but then I would condemn your writing to a timely death. If you want to make a quick buck and reduce your writing to cheap whoredom, then please, do so. You have plenty of weak readers to fool. You don’t need a soul for that.

That being said, the goal is NOT “making characters relatable” or “writing someone the reader can identify with.” Can it happen in your writing? Of course. Should you aim for that? No. Here’s why:

1. “I’m so relatable!”

Do you want to sink your writing down to veritable scumbags, douchecanoes drifting down the rivers of douchedom, people who think the world revolves around the great “me,” and intellectual poseurs who “read” so they can say they “read books?” If you’re writing to that audience, then you have their money, part of their ear, and nothing of importance. Enjoy!

2. “The more I relate to these characters, the more I like this book!”

Then why don’t you write about three book club members whose lives are changed by reading a book with characters they can relate to, namely, book club members who are also reading a book that changes their lives with relatable characters. Wait, whoa. Literary inception aside, it’s a parlor trick. That’s not writing. That’s being a scam artist.

3. Realistic vs. Relatable

Similar, maybe, but not the same. Angle for the real, simply because it’s real. Art imitates life. Let the real speak for itself. Don’t roll up newsprint and make a ghetto funnel to score points by narrowing the real down to a solipsistic gimmick. Pour your intent into the art, the aesthetics, the narrative. Quit baiting.

4. Universal vs. Individual

Let’s take a copy of Pride and Prejudice from the bookshelves of Reading All Right. Do you think Ms. Austen went for the “Oh, how can I make these characters relatable?” approach? Nay, I say, with a vehement NO on the side. Know why people still read her (and others of her ilk), instead of the crap you’re reading now (which no one will read in twenty years)? Hint: something to do with ‘universality.’ Relating to a character can be a passing thing, the waves inconstant. But a ‘universal’ character, with qualities innate to this concept of being human? They stand the test of time, whether you “relate” to them or not. You admire them.

5. Art vs. Mirrors.

Know what I like best about paying to go to museums? Nope, it’s not the art on display. Nope, nothing to do with the awe-inspiring pieces that artists pour their souls into. Not even seeing how artists capture life and imagination around them. None of that. What I like best: looking at my reflection when I come to the doorway.

Why? Because I like being able to see myself. And that’s the beauty of art, right? Because I look into that and say, “Hey, that’s me! Wow.” Yeah.

Writers, you do it right when you make your characters works of art. They stand the tests of time. You do it wrong when you strive to make your characters relatable. You make nothing but mirrors.

Writing All Wrong can be reached via email (WritingAllWrong@me.com) and followed on Twitter (@WritingAllWrong).