I don’t know who thought up the writing axiom “Show, don’t tell,” but I believe it causes endless confusion and misery for writers who already suffer from poor self-esteem and are ready to bow their heads to an imagined High Priest of Letters.

In case you don’t know, “Show, don’t tell” is meant to encourage the author to allow the reader to experience the story through actions that are visible on the surface, as if you were watching a movie, rather than through the author’s exposition, summarization, or description.

For example, let’s say the protagonists in your novel, Jim and Fred, are having an argument. You could simply write, “Jim was angry.” If you do this, you’re relaying to the reader a shorthand version of Jim’s emotional state. You have observed Jim, and this is your conclusion. This is “telling.”

Alternatively, you could say, “Jim’s face became red and his eyes flashed. The veins on his forehead throbbed as his mouth tightened into a foul snarl.” From this, the reader should be able to conclude, “Oh—Jim must be angry!” This is “showing.”

By using this showing method, you, the author, are reporting, in detail, what your reader would see if you were not there to interpret Jim’s emotional state. You have removed yourself from the role of interpreter or interlocutor so that the reader see for themselves what’s going on.

It’s easy to see the big advantage, in this particular case, of showing. It’s just more fun to read! Saying “Jim was angry” is boring. It’s three ordinary words that convey very little information. In contrast, the showing version is twenty-two words that collectively provide more information in a way that’s more emotionally compelling. They feed the imagination much more powerfully than the rather vague assertion that Jim was “angry.” After all, there are countless ways to be angry!   

Either Way, You’re the Decider

Here’s the difficult part: Whether you choose to show or tell, you’re the author. You’re the film director, so to speak, and you must decide what to show your reader. The reader knows nothing except what you reveal to them. You can either tell them or show them.

As a matter of practicality, you cannot possibly show your reader every bit of information about your characters and their lives. If you tried to do this, your novel would have to be thousands of pages long! Sometimes you just need to tell your reader some facts and then get on with it. For example, on page 2 of Carrie, Stephen King’s classic novel, the author bluntly tells us, “Carrie White was telekinetic.” Boom. Just like that! Right at the beginning of the book! Of course, as the story unfolds he shows us in vivid detail the extent of her powers, confirming his earlier revelation.

As the author of your book, you need to constantly decide what to tell your audience and what to show them. Your choices will depend on what you feel is truly important to your story as opposed to what you need to provide as “boilerplate” to set the stage. This is where we get into description. Every story needs some amount of description to orient the reader and provide context. Location can be important. You might say, “Nestled in the Hidden Valley along the banks of the meandering Green River, the little town of Centerville was a thriving center of commerce and an important stop for the Pacific Railway trains bound for the lumber markets of Seattle.” This is pure “telling.” You’re informing the reader of a set of basic facts they need to know. Then, when your hero strolls into Joe’s Hardware Store on Main Street, the reader can easily visualize the setting.

Inner Lives

Another situation where telling is necessary is in literary fiction, where authors tend to spend time discussing the interior lives of their characters. By definition, these are thoughts and emotions that do not appear on the surface, or may even be hidden by the character. The author may tell us how the character feels about his or her life, other characters, or some event in the future or past. Going back to Carrie, here’s a typical sentence from Part 2, Prom Night: “Carrie did not think anyone could understand the brute courage it had taken to reconcile herself to this, to leave herself open to whatever fearsome possibilities the night might realize.”

This is an example of the omniscient author reading the character’s mind and then telling us what she was feeling. Could King have somehow “shown” us this through Carrie’s external actions or expressions? Perhaps, but he chose to just tell us and keep the story moving forward.

This brings us to the real point of the admonition.

Own Your Subject

As the author, you need to own your subject. You need to have the first and last word on it. This means deftly telling the reader certain facts they need to know, and then showing them, with patience and insight, the important things. You cannot gloss over your story by just saying, “He did this and then he did that.” Such an approach is lazy, boring, unoriginal, and uninformative. On the other hand, you can’t devote page after page discussing what your character is thinking and feeling. Your character needs to do something and take some action that we can see.

Back to Carrie. Stephen King owns this subject. No one has yet written a better novel about a repressed teenage girl with telekinetic powers. He took his idea and worked it to the max. He mined every nugget of gold from it. King happens to own many book ideas. Do you want to write a horror story about a demonic car that kills people? Good luck! Or how about a killer St. Bernard dog? You’d better come up with an original twist.

That’s the bottom line. Choose your story, and then make yourself the undisputed authority on it. Cover all your bases. Have the last word.