Tag: Fiction

Showing vs. Telling: Round Two

Last week on Writing All Wrong, we touched upon the ongoing battle between “showing and telling” in writing.

You may “know show,” but can you “tell telling?” They don’t call it “storytelling” for nothing. Perhaps we should find some unbribed referees and make this a fairer fight.

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.

And here’s where we let “telling” take Round Two. Can’t have one without the other, no matter how many pseudo-purists tell you otherwise. Heck, they tell you to show more. That should tell you something indeed. Some takeaways on telling:

Telling is underrated.

“Oh,” the pedant cries, “it’s writing, don’t you know! You can tell anyone anything. Showing is the sizzle of the steak, dear writer.”

This guy needs to sock it. Showing might be the sizzle and the shizzle, but telling is your beef. It does more with less (if done right). It keeps the car in gear. Compare:

“The fire raged to the last vestige of the house. The roof caved at last, crushing all his belongings with a punishing blow. He allowed an exasperated breath to pass from between his lips, carrying with it the air of long-held, pent-up desperation.”

You can just say: “He sighed.”

I think we get it. You tell a little, and you let your reader do more reading into it. Don’t do the thinking for your reader.

Telling hammers home the nail of showing.

“The stallion’s eyes become one with the black. The foaming ceased. He was dead.”

Anything past that, and you’re beating a dead horse. Literally. You don’t have to show it all when you can drive the point home with a forceful tell.

Telling is the soul of dialogue.

You may be a master showman, but you’re going to be a master cheesman as well if you don’t get your telling in line when it comes time to dialogue:

“‘How?’” she asked, barely hiding her confusion.

“With the spray cheese canister,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You can rig just about any of them to explode,” he explained, sensing the worry in her voice.

“But why?” Elena pressed. “Couldn’t he have gone . . . some other way?” Her voice trailed off, audibly conveying her hopelessness and dismay.”

You can show less, tell more, and fail much less if you stop trying to show the dialogue. Observe:

“How?”

“Spray cheese canister,” he said. “You can rig just about any of them to explode.”

“But why?” Elena pressed. “Couldn’t he have gone . . . some other way?”

Showing off your dialogue gets annoying. Don’t waste effort on annoying your reader, please.

Tell what you don’t have time to show.

It wasn’t about the money, he explained. She’d been unfaithful. Too many walruses and seals. Not enough orcas.

I don’t think you’d have the time nor space to “show” me all of that. I’m sure it’d be a fun read, but you’ve told me enough to keep me reading regardless. Nothing at all wrong with that.

Care to tell me about how you use your telling?

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

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).