The Two Three-Word Phrases That Will Change Your Writing for the Better
And two critical sins of creative writing
As an editor, I’ve given out two pieces of advice more than any other. They’re suggestions you’ve probably heard. But to hear, understand, and effectively apply the tips can prove different beasts.
The first piece of advice I began to hear as early as middle school. But it wasn’t wisdom that actionably clicked for me until the better part of a decade later.
“Show. Don’t Tell.”
They were words my English teachers would often say.
As an adult, I’d attest that there may be no singular sin of writing so common as ignoring this advice. Less experienced writers fall into the trap of approaching each new article as if it’s a research paper, demarcating introductions, bodies, and conclusions with explicit phrases. They’ll state what the piece “aims to” do, and what they will “attempt to prove,” within it, or what the article “seeks to highlight.”
A well-structured introduction will leave the intent of an article clear enough to negate the need for these overt statements and transitions. Often, introductory paragraphs are mere restatements of what’s already known and can be done away with completely. For example, in broaching a weightier subject, one might be inclined to begin their piece with a sweeping generalization about how “everyone knows such and such is complicated, but….”
In an article addressing healthy sleep routines, some might begin by saying what even most children already know — that “Sleep is something that everyone needs. It’s a basic human function that helps us rest and recharge. Sleep is a necessity, and without it, people would be fatigued and unable to function properly during the day.”
Experienced writers will jump right into the heart of their meaning and do away with needless summations of common knowledge. Omitting a frivolous introduction signals to readers that you value both your screen real estate and their use of time
A journalist won’t drag you along for paragraph after paragraph before beginning to communicate the central themes of their piece. Much of the best journalism is succinct and direct.
Another way writers tell rather than show is to simply state what people and things “are” or “were.”
“He was angry,” communicates meaning, but it’s hollow and unevocative. It doesn’t jump off of the page.
The same idea could instead be expressed as, “He clenched shaking fists as his face flushed with rage,” and suddenly, the anger is communicated without being stated directly and leaves the readers envisioning it instead.
“She was sad,” could be communicated as, “Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at the floor, unable to speak.”
“The room was messy,” could be written, “Plates and laundry were strewn across the floor, books piled up on the desk, and a half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on the bed.”
In each case, the emotion of the person, or the state of the room, is communicated without being “told.” Instead, authors craft vivid enough images for the details to leap from the page and eliminate the need for them to be spelled out so directly.
My high school English teacher had an aversion to linking verbs (is, are, was, am, etc.) because of the laziness they could introduce into our writing. So for each use of the words, he would deduct points.
Avoiding them could be a challenge. But in learning to work around them, I think it helped us to establish a more useful approach to descriptive writing and to develop an appreciation for the value of a correctly chosen word.
In so many instances where people “tell” rather than “show,” they end up creating dull equations from their sentences. “This was that” and “he is this” are lifeless routes for communicating ideas that lend themselves to a wide multitude of possibilities.
The following paragraph could have been more directly communicated by saying simply, “There are overgrown Mayan ruins on the property.” But I felt I could show the reader more of what I’d actually seen by describing it:
“… On the compound, where the glade gives way to ceibas, sapodillas, cohune palms, and banana trees, lie the weather-worn remnants of ancient Mayan ruins. Once a modest pyramid, it rests here in a state of disrepair. It’s flanked by vines and collapsed into an indiscriminate pile of spalled stone with plants and sinews sprouting from the jumbled facade.”
I also felt that using the present tense rather than the past tense would be a more appropriate way of making this story feel palpable. I thought the approach lent itself more toward being “shown.”
Within the same piece, I describe Coca-Cola signs that sit atop storefronts, and I could have explained them exactly as that: “In San Ignacio, there are Coca-Cola signs that sit atop storefronts.” Instead, I thought I could create a stronger visual by saying that:
“At seemingly every town center is a bus stop and a convenience store proudly adorned with a Coca-Cola sign. Most are worn and shaded by dirt. Some are fixed askew atop storefronts, and others rock back and forth in pendulous indecision, the scant and sultry breeze of the sweltering day just enough to keep them from devolving into rust-locked obscurity.”
This type of description functions as bedrock in fictional pieces or memoirs about travel. They’re often fundamental in bringing a story, experience, or part of the world to life.
Achieving Balance
But there is such thing as a scenario in which it would be useful to tell instead of show. It’s good to introduce some variation in our sentence length. As in music, the slower and more melodic parts of a song accentuate those places where the volume and tempo pick up.
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