{Preface, added 3/12/11:
The following posting consists of general guidelines, mere suggestions presented as a public service to LitNutters who are looking for ways to improve their short stories. The intentions for posting this thread are neither antagonistic nor polemic, although the original poster has come to realize the truth of the old saying: "No good deed goes unpunished."}
“Show, Don't Tell”: How to Jumpstart Your Short Stories
A non-fiction book currently making the cable talk show rounds is Tell to Win by Hollywood insider, Peter Gruber, whose apparent advice is to include “stories” or autobiographical anecdotes in negotiations in order to make one’s listeners more receptive. Well, such a strategy might work in the business world and in private life, but in contemporary fiction-writing, narration that is straight-up, linear, and literal doesn't generally make a good short story. Stories that “grab” the reader usually don't “tell” too much; what they do is “show.”
Where did we get the idea that stories involve “telling”? As children, we were introduced to literature in the form of fairy tales, the epitome of story-telling. As you remember, many fairy tales begin the same way: “Once upon a time,” and more often than not the narrative proceeds chronologically: first this happened, and then this happened. They typically tend to end the same way as well: “and they lived happily ever after.” Concerning the characters-- many times a maiden (often at story’s end revealed to be a princess), a handsome prince, and an indisputable villain such as a wicked witch– the story depicts the characters just as they are with little or no shading or nuance. There is little doubt over just who is good and who is evil, as the fairy tale proceeds from point A to point B, with few side trips through the woods.
Fairytales are certainly “old,” but literature created primarily for adults is older still. One of the world’s ancient works, The Iliad, is an epic poem about the Trojan War. As the poem opens, the war has been raging for nine long years, but rather than starting off with a lengthy recap of the conflict, with its causes and battles, the Iliad begins in media res – “in the middle of things.” The first scene of Book I introduces the poem’s hero in less than a triumphant light. Indeed, the first time we see Achilles, he’s having a flat-out, raging temper tantrum. Homer, the world’s first storyteller, does not “tell” his story– he “shows” us characters with human flaws straight out of the gate.
A more modern medium for storytelling is the motion picture; on film especially, “showing” is much preferable to “telling.” We've all seen really bad movies that depend on an invisible ”voice-over” narrator to make sure we know what we should be seeing on the screen with our own eyes. Another cinematic “no no” is burdening the story with long scenes full of expository dialogue: for instance, two cops are sitting around talking about a crime that already happened. Scenes like this certainly bog down the movie which would have better had it started with showing the crime as it is committed. Most contemporary movies “hit the ground running,” so to speak, often before the opening credits have started rolling. That’s not just movies released in 2011. Produced way back in 1943, The Life and Times of Colonel Blimp begins with a convoy of military motorcycles loudly racing across the screen. Even then, the co-directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressberger wisely knew what grabs the audience, who naturally must have wondered where are all these soldiers rushing to--and why?
In a short-story an intrusive narrator, like a busybody who tells the reader exactly what to think, is the equivalent of “voice-over” narration in a movie. Similarly, a short story that doesn't really “get going” until it fills in everything that has happened previous to the plot of the story bogs the work down. Such extraneous material will likely fail to give its audience a reason to keep reading. If the plot of the current short story depends on a previously occurring incident, the writer can allude to certain facts from the “back story” with a judicious use of a non-intrusive flashback, which can be as brief as a sentence or two.
Instead of opening with, “Once upon a time,” with a narration set deep in the past, a good short story begins right in the middle of things with a “cinematic” scene. Even though it is written in the past tense, the action seems as if it is happening right here and now. That means fewer descriptive passages depending on some form of the verb “to be;” on the other hand, it does mean plenty of moving parts– “action” verbs. This doesn't mean that the verbs should be in the present tense–which can make the sentences sound choppy, childish and--within flashbacks--awkward.
Sometimes a story gets weighed down with linear narration in long strings of simple declarative sentences with the same predicate – “is,” or “was.” Occasionally the reader has to plow through all the minutiae of the character’s biography, from his conception to the point of the story at hand – even in some cases, what’s going to happen to him when he dies. Some writers feel compelled to list every thing the character does during every waking hour of the day. In high school we all read about Gregor Samsa and how he wakes up one morning a “changed” man.
Amateur stories written a century after Kafka’s famous story still can't shake that device. I can remember an article in a writer’s magazine in which an editor said that every time she received an unsolicited manuscript which begins with the protagonist waking up in the morning, she didn't read another word and shipped it right back to its author in the S.A.S.E. he so dutifully enclosed.
The obsession with “telling” spills over into the extensive descriptions of each and every character. No psychological quirk of the character’s personality is left to chance, and the physical makeup could have come from a physical description on a police blotter: “He was about 14 years old, 145 lbs, five ten in his stocking feet. Distinguishing marks: hairline scar above left eyebrow and a five-inch tattoo of a dragon on the right side of this neck.”
Please allow me to illustrate this with two openings from a hypothetical story, the same scene written two different ways.
This story opens by "Telling":
Donny Doyle was fourteen years old. He lived with his mother and stepfather, a brother , and two half-brothers. He also had two little stepbrothers and a baby half-sister whom he never met. Donny saw his real father very rarely, and sometimes he had to try really hard to remember what he looked like. Donny’s mother went to work before he got up in the morning, and some nights she came home after he went to bed, even though he had a habit of staying up as late as he pleased. Donny’s stepfather was currently unemployed, and he liked to drink.
Donny was big for his age, five feet ten inches tall. All through school he was bigger than his classmates. Because of this, whenever school started in September, Donny’s new teacher immediately thought, “This kid is so big he’s probably been left back a couple years. Just what I need, another dumb one.” At his middle school the seating arrangement was by height so the students could see the teacher, the blackboard, and the A/V devices better. As a result, Donny always sat in the back of the classroom. That’s where they put the misbehaving kids as well. Donny’s mother used to get notes from the teacher saying “Danny has a problem with authority.” In Danny’s case, this was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
One day, in English class, the regular teacher was absent. Another man was standing in the front of the class to take his place.
Here’s the same story, opening by “showing”:
As was his habit, Donny arrived at 317-B a long three minutes after the Fifth Period bell had rung. This time, though, his entrance was more explosive than usual. He wouldn't have kicked open the door so violently if his father hadn't stood him the night before.
“What the –“ Instead of English class, Donny thought he had walked into a satellite of hell. Railsback had copped Kylie Walker’s cellphone and was teasing her by pretending to fling it across the room. The classroom floor was covered by a sea of paper, junk food wrappers, even pistachio shells.
The din was ear-splitting –until the door opened and for a split-second ceased–but just as suddenly revved up again with joyous shouts. “Sub! Sub!” came the cry. “We got a sub!”
The substitute’s command was even louder. “Quiet!” Then on a decreased decibel level, he announced, “Everybody settled down? All right. Mr. Gresham is ill, and I am taking his place for the interim.”
A couple of students attempted to reprise the litany of “Sub! Sub!” but one threatening look from the imposing man in the front of the room was all it took to stop it in mid-syllable.
“My name is Mr. Bryant. Let’s see who is who.” He ignored the class roster for taking attendance. Instead he ran his finger down the seating chart. “Mr. Doyle?”
Damned if he wasn't staring straight at Donny! He raised his hand as if it weighed two hundred pounds. “Donny,” he said. “The name is Donny.”
“ I see. Tell me, Mr. Doyle, do you address Mr. Gresham by his first name?”
Donny shot a glance over to Railsback, who was snickering, as if to say where'd they get this one from?
“I asked you a question, Mr. Doyle.”
“Dude, I don't even know his first name. It’s prob’ly ‘Gaylord’ or somethin’ wussy like that.”
“Well, Mr. Doyle, you should know this. For the duration of Mr. Gresham’s absence, I will be addressed as Mister Bryant. In return I will address each member of the class by surname with the appropriate title, Mister or Miss. Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?”
“I can't believe this!”
“I asked ‘Is that clear, Mr. Doyle?’ “
Finally the soft answer came: “Yeah.”
“Pardon me?”
“Yes, Mr. Bryant.”
“Thank you, Mr. Doyle--and by the way, it might be a good idea if you sat in the front of the room. I wouldn't want you to miss anything. Now, we will proceed with Mr. Gresham’s lesson plan for ‘The Metamorphosis’ by Franz Kafka. Please open your textbooks to page 79.”
Admittedly, that passage is light years away from the level of James Joyce with his “scrupulous meanness,” but it seems to show somewhat more life than the prosaic, “telling” passage that precedes it.
In general, “showing” is more effective than telling is that the former allows the reader to be an active participant in the unfolding of the story. The writer provides just enough details to show us what the character is in relationship to the story. In this way, an author is like an impressionistic painter; just as the viewer’s eye fills in the soft lines and splotches of the painting, the reader takes the swatches of dialogue and brief glimpses of what the character does and fills in the blanks. This is a much more satisfying experience for the reader; if he is expected merely to sit there passively as he is told what happens and why, he may as well be watching some inane reality show on TV.
The desire for some beginning writers to be absolutely “honest” and forthright sometimes has the side effect of going overboard when the compulsion to “tell the story” is so strong. It’s counterintuitive to hold back and thus shy away from subtlety, understatement, and nuance. For instance, instead of having the author tells him exactly how the character happens to be feeling: “disappointed, sad, happy, ecstatic, relieved, angry,” ad infinitum, the reader would prefer to make that judgement himself. One would like to advise such a writer to fight such earnestness and instead, trust the reader to “get” what he wants him to know, by presenting the characters in a minimum of details---there may be few of them, but they are just vivid enough to make the desired point. “Show” the story, but whatever you do, don't “tell” it.