Show, don’t tell – Page 2

Show Don’t Tell: prove it

By Stephanie Orges November 11, 2011 October 8, 2013 Show, don't tell, Writing tips

Telling is claiming. Showing is proving.

Even acknowledging what I said in my last post on Show, Don’t Tell, the fact remains: when it comes to character development, “show don’t tell” translates to “actions speak louder than words.” And it’s especially important with our main characters.

For instance, I can tell you that my hero is brave and kind, but humble—but you have no reason to believe me.

I can tell you that my villain is brilliant but evil and unspeakably cruel—but you have no reason to believe me.

I can tell you that my heroine is gentle and naïve yet strong—but you have absolutely no reason to believe me.

I have made several claims, but they are nothing but opinion at best, hearsay at second best, and outright lies at the worst. I haven’t given you any proof.

The actions are the proof.

Prove bravery by making that hero scared out of his mind as he rides into battle or stands up to the bully. Prove his kindness and humility as he pretends to prefer to stand on the subway when he’s really giving up his seat to an elderly man. Show the growth of his character by upping the stakes and changing his behavior as the story progresses. What he runs from in the first chapter, make him charge at in the final chapter. What he hides from the people closest to him early on, make him bare to the world at the climax.

Prove the intelligence of your villain by making him a chess champion or a con artist or a troubled child whose parents locked him in the library to punish him. If he is a business man destroying the competing mom-and-pop store, he shouldn’t just outsell them; he should soil their reputation and win the loyalty of their customers, and know all the legal loopholes to get himself off scot-free. He should outsmart both your readers and your hero throughout the story, and when he is defeated in the end it shouldn’t be because he made a stupid mistake. Prove evil and cruelty by making him abuse an old man, a little girl, his wife. Have him murder his best friend or his brother.

Prove the gentleness of your heroine by making her go out of her way to set a mouse free instead of killing it. Prove her naivety by having her trust the villain when he says he’s trying to turn his life around. And prove her strength by making her fight her own battle; she’s the one digging up legal proof of the villain’s guilt while the hero is out sparring with his lackeys in alley ways. Or she’s the queen trying to stifle a political coup while the king is away at war.

If there is any character trait you want to convey, give that character something that tests that area. Give them a chance to show who they are. Make a patient man wait years for his girlfriend to say yes to a ring. Make a determined woman who has just escaped slavery face poverty and discrimination and sickness before she finds her happiness.

Then, your readers will not only believe that your hero is brave, your villain is evil, and your heroine is strong—they will argue with you if you try to tell them otherwise. That is the power of Show, Don’t Tell.

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Show Don’t Tell: If you must tell, have something to show for it

By Stephanie Orges October 28, 2011 October 8, 2013 Character development, Show, don't tell, Writing tips

Continuing the series on Show, Don’t Tell.

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I have this awful habit of writing little narrative “character sketches” devoid of dialogue or action; simply summarizing the personalities of my heroes. I was all set to write a post about how to avoid this—with the “actions speak louder than words” approach I touched on in this post—but Wednesday morning, Mark Twain changed my mind.

I had settled in to read a little Huck Finn for twenty minutes while I ate breakfast. And there—yes, really—was a character sketch.

This naturally gave me second thoughts on the contents of this blog post. But as I kept reading, I realized my initial thoughts weren’t wrong—just a bit simplistic. Because here’s the thing: to show, you have to tell.

After all, we’re not making picture books here. All we have are words. What can you do with words besides tell? The trick is to figure out what you want to show, and then use telling to do it.

Example!

Here’s a little of what Huck, our first person narrator, says in his character sketch:

Col. Grangerfield was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that’s worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, although he warn’t no more quality than a mud-cat, himself…
…There warn’t no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn’t ever loud. He was as kind as he could be—you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see, but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning began to flicker out from under his eyebrows you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn’t ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners—everybody was always good mannered where he was.

All telling. Telling in a perfectly charming way, but telling nonetheless. Note, however, that he’s not telling us anything important. This character doesn’t last more than a chapter or two. So why the time spent on him?

Because by telling about Grangerfield, Twain is showing much more:

Society of the time: Huck’s mention of “well born,” and of the opinions of his father and the Widow Douglas—characters on completely opposite ends of the personality and status spectrum—shows us something about the beliefs of the time.

Huck’s character: we learn what a kind, decent person Huck thinks Grangerfield is. We later discover the family is feuding (pointlessly, as you’d expect) with a neighbor family. When a Grangerfield girl runs away to marry a boy from the rival family, the feud escalates into a bloody battle. Rather than changing his mind about the family, Huck blames himself for their deaths, as he had unwittingly helped deliver a message between the two lovers.

So this little bit of telling about a minor character actually serves to show us a lot about our main character.

The takeaway? If you find you must “tell” something, stop and ask yourself what that telling shows. What are your words indirectly illustrating? If it shows only what it tells, rewrite.

But if by telling a little, you show a lot—you’re good!

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How to get rid of background exposition PART 2

By Stephanie Orges October 21, 2011 March 6, 2013 Show, don't tell, Writing tips

So let’s finish up Example Number 2 from last week.

Once again, the background exposition (telling):

I had been the youngest ever accepted into the Academy, and the quickest ever to graduate. Since then, I had sought out every acclaimed blade-wielder in the five kingdoms, and defeated them all. I had come to this city for one reason only; to challenge the last.

The fix (showing):

I rapped my knuckles on the bar to get the innkeeper’s attention. He finished drying a tankard before leaning towards me.
“What’ll ye have?”
“I need a room.”
“Name?”
“Lister.”
He snorted. “Any relation to Gavin Lister?”
“That’s me.”
The innkeeper chuckled.
Then he saw my serious expression and sobered momentarily in disbelief.
Then he laughed even louder.
“Ye want me to believe you’re the fellow made the best swordsmen in five kingdoms look like fools wavin’ broom handles? Ye’re not even old enough to go to the Academy.”
I sighed. Starting tomorrow, I was growing a beard. “Why don’t you pick out the best swordsman in this room?”
“And?”
“And if he kills me, you get everything I’m carrying here, which is more than enough gold to pay someone to mop up the blood. If I kill him, I get a room.”
My confidence made him hesitate, but as he eyed me, I saw him decide that I was bluffing. He smiled and began scanning the room for a suitable challenger.
A quarter of an hour later, I was following the innkeeper up a narrow flight of stairs. He kept glancing back over his shoulder at me, and after opening the door to my room, he stood aside to let me pass, his chin hanging open as if he was trying to say something.
“You’re…here to fight the Sword Master, then?” he said at last. His tone was a pleading, pathetic version of what it had been.
“That’s right.”
“No man has ever crossed blades with him and lived.”
“Good,” I said. “I’d hate to be unevenly matched.”
I shut the door and locked it.

So, did we hit the same points we hit last week? Let’s see…

Show the past by telling the present consequences

His past: accomplishing a lot at a very young age. The consequence: difficulty convincing strangers he really is Lister due to his young appearance.

Give your reader clues, not facts

We know he’s new in town because he’s looking for a room. We know he’s famous, because a stranger knows his name and history. We know he’s young because of the innkeeper’s disbelieving comments.

Work those clues into the action and dialogue

I let the innkeeper talk about Lister’s reputation, rather than letting Lister think it to himself; otherwise it sounds like bragging. Also, Lister’s action in actually fighting someone shows us he’s the real deal, rather than just somebody who forged a fake reputation and talks big. Lastly, as an added bonus, we see that he readily kills his opponents, and that he’s undefeated.

Be careful with dialogue, though. It’s easy to shove all your background exposition into dialogue and think it’s okay. It’s not.

Remember this rule of thumb: never make a character say something he wouldn’t naturally say. If you’re forcing words into his mouth, that’s how it will sound—forced.

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Read more:

Show Don’t Tell on: description, telling to show, and character development.

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Show, Don’t Tell: how to get rid of background exposition

By Stephanie Orges October 15, 2011 October 8, 2013 Show, don't tell, Writing tips

Background exposition. When your characters have enough history to fill another whole book, but you’re not ready to write that book yet (or ever).

It usually looks like this (notice the proliferation of past perfect tense):

She had been living alone since her husband, Tom, left. He hadn’t stayed around long after their baby died. It had been a long, intensive labor, and the little girl, born a full month early, hadn’t survived.

Or this:

I had been the youngest ever accepted into the Academy, and the quickest ever to graduate. Since then, I had sought out every acclaimed blade-wielder in the five kingdoms, and defeated them all. I had come to this city for one reason only; to challenge the last.

Why is this a problem?

Because real people don’t go around summarizing their own histories in their heads. So when fictional people do it, it ruins the suspension of disbelief.

**Now, let’s find a way to show.**

We have to seamlessly work all the same details into an actual scene. Into action. Into dialogue. The trick is to plant clues for our readers. Let’s start with our first example:

It didn’t matter if no one else was around to appreciate it. It was Christmas Eve, for heaven’s sake; the house shouldn’t be completely devoid of twinkle lights and fake greenery. Maggie yanked down the attic stairs and ascended them with a flashlight.
She found the tree right away; it was still in the box it came in. Nothing else was labeled, of course. Waste of effort, Tom would say every year, I’ll remember which ones are which.
            “Fat lot of good that does me now, Tom,” she said aloud. She pulled up the flaps of the next closest box.
And stopped breathing.
A tiny pink dress stared up at her from atop a pile of tiny hats and tiny pairs of overalls and tiny white socks fringed with lace. She blinked. Tom must have put it up here. After he said he’d get rid of it all. She remembered, because she’d specifically asked him to.
            What else would I do with it? he’d snapped; I don’t know why we bought all this crap so early on, anyway.
            Early. Everything had been too early. The clothes. The morning. The baby.
            Maggie bowed her head and sobbed into the cardboard.

A little bit of past perfect tense sneaks in there, but it’s much more organic to the scene.

See how we use Maggie’s present to illustrate her past? See how we don’t actually come right out and say anything, but it’s all evident in what she’s doing and what she’s thinking? We never say Tom was her husband, but our readers see that they had a house together, celebrated holidays together, and at some point thought they were going to have a child. We never mention that the baby died, but from the baby’s absence, the boxed-up baby clothes, the couple’s angry conversation, the “early” tie-in, and Maggie’s tears, our readers get the message.

To sum up:

Show the past by telling the present consequences
Give your reader clues, not facts
Work those clues into the action and dialogue

Stay tuned: next week we’ll do a “showy” version of the second example.

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Read last week’s post on how to “Show, Don’t Tell” with description.

Show, don’t tell: what it means and how to do it

By Stephanie Orges October 7, 2011 January 15, 2016 Show, don't tell, Writing tips

CC Image by Scott Ogle

It’s the first rule of writing. We hear it all the time. In fact, it’s almost all we hear. Over and over again, they tell us…

Show, don’t tell.

Show; don’t tell.

Show! Don’t tell!

In the name of all that’s good, what the heck does that mean???

Well, it’s kind of complicated. And it’s kind of hard to put your finger on it. And it’s kind of going to take more than one blog post. But let’s start with something simple.

Description!

Remember how we had so much fun guessing who the voices in Voice Week were, and where they came from and why they did the things they did?

We were able to do that because the writers were showing. Show Don’t Tell really means “don’t say it; convey it.” Separate facts from opinion, and then tell the facts in a way that guides your readers to the right opinion. In other words; don’t tell your readers the princess is beautiful; describe her in such a way that your readers say she’s beautiful.

Here’s an example:

She had long blonde hair and green eyes. She was beautiful.

Meh. Laundry list followed by the writer telling me what to think. Here’s a version that shows:

Her golden hair flowed all the way to her waist, and her eyes flashed, green as emeralds.

Cliché, I know, but the point remains: I never used the word beautiful; I didn’t have to. Words like golden, flowed, and emeralds show us she’s beautiful.

Now let’s step it up and try to cut out the cliché. Another way to show is to write the reactions of other people. Show the reader how the princess makes the knight feel. Not like this:

She made him feel nervous.

Or even this

He grew self-conscious under her gaze.

That’s telling your reader he’s nervous and self-conscious. Instead, give the reader clues and let them figure it out:

When she turned her head, her hair rippled, like wheat when the wind sweeps across it. When her green gaze fell on him, he forgot to breathe. When she smiled, his knees nearly gave out. And when she asked his name, his tongue stumbled all over his teeth to reply.

See how we used his physical reactions to show just how beautiful she is, without ever using the word? We also know the color of her hair without saying it.

We can even take the same laundry list (long blonde hair, green eyes) and twist it around completely:

Her hair, which stuck out in every direction, was lifeless and stiff, and exactly the same color as dead grass. He could imagine grabbing a handful and hearing a crunching sound. She felt his stare and glared back, but her eyes were lifeless as well, dull as a faded tapestry.

Ultimately, telling is just giving your readers knowledge. Showing is helping your reader see and hear and feel what’s happening. It’s the difference between being told the princess is beautiful, and believing the princess is beautiful.

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