The Problem with "Show, Don't Tell"

Sometimes writing advice gets distilled into slogans that proliferate unchecked. “Show, don’t tell” is a prime example. In a sea of more nuanced (and often more confusing) tips and explanations, it offers something clear and immediately usable. As a result, it is bandied about with confidence in workshops and online forums, despite the frustrations it often creates.

The frustrations come when trying to fulfill the directive itself, which can be further distilled into another: Be specific. For example, we often hear “Don’t just say that a character is cold-- show us,” which sounds reasonable enough. But the moment you try and apply it, uncomfortable questions inevitably arise: What, why, when, how? In other words, of all the possible ways we can be specific about something, which ones do we favor? Which are right for the story at hand?

The developing writer will seek to relieve this uncertainty in whichever way they can, not only in the creation of sensory details but in the shaping of the story itself. Their solutions tend to be oddly consistent, personal as they often feel: a turn toward the beautiful, the favorite, the interesting, the shocking, even the vaguely literary. Sometimes the details are lifted from notebooks or personal journals with little to no discernment. Other times the writer relies on whatever comes to mind (an especially tempting solution when a deadline is looming) in the hope that the unconscious will provide an answer.

The results however are often uneven as details feel scattered or forced into place-- a bit like a painter who gives little thought to the colors they apply to the canvas. What’s more, the directive to sidestep what feels easy, simple or natural doesn’t always feel right, and can lead to a writer needlessly second-guessing themselves-- and to even worse offenses, like flowery prose.

Eventually what happens is something akin to decision fatigue, as the process starts to feel like an endless series of guesses. When one choice seems no better than another-- or when no choice presents itself at all-- the questions grow harder to ignore: Is writing a story really this difficult-- or is it just me?

What many developing writers might be surprised to learn is that storytellers solved this problem thousands of years ago, most likely at a time before stories were even written down. The answer is simply to limit one’s options-- to work within constraints. What the craft-conscious writer does can therefore be compared to a jazz musician improvising on a melody. Though the musician’s choices may seem random, spontaneous even, they are made within a defined framework-- a musical key which determines which notes will sound good together. When well-trained and focused, the musician can theoretically sustain the improvisation for as long as they like, with the key signature, time signature and melody all working together as guides.

So, what are the equivalent guides for writers? Plot and subtext. I like to think of them as opposite sides of the same road:

Plot we may define as the story of a character’s flaw. But subtext is a little harder to explain. We could say any number of things about it, but let's first limit ourselves to the problem it solves: the selection of suitable details. In this way, subtext acts as a filter. What goes through the filter can go in the story and what is blocked by the filter, doesn’t.

The filter is set or adjusted by making a comparison between the flaw and something else. To see how this works, consider Pride and Prejudice. I once came across a social media post that joked the entire novel consists of people visiting each other’s houses. That’s all they do! the writer complained. And really, they’re not wrong. But those visits, and all other events in the story, happen for a reason. If we think about the novel’s secondary concerns, we perhaps see a pattern begin to emerge:

Who is invited where and how often? Who will have a home and who will be turned out? Will Netherfield remain empty or will the Bingleys return? Will the upper class gatekeepers have their way? Will the younger Miss Bennets find the necessary restraint to at least present as respectable young ladies, or will they fall prey to the likes of Mr Wickham, who will see their behavior as an easy in? Will Mrs Bennet ever keep her thoughts to herself or continue to overstep the bounds of decorum? Will Jane, by contrast, ever break with decorum to give Mr Bingley the encouragement he needs?

If we compare the above to the novel’s primary concerns, we perhaps see a connection: Will Lizzie see through Darcy’s stern exterior or be held back by her pride and prejudice? Will Darcy maintain the defenses put up by his own?

The central conflict, then, as acted out by Lizzie and Darcy (the novel is built around both their journeys) is fundamentally one of boundaries, an idea which echoes throughout the story in ways both big and small. As a result, subtext does far more than help guide the writer: it creates cohesion, deepens the central conflict, and builds a discrete but persistent commentary beneath the surface of the story.

Pride and Prejudice is also an excellent example of a story that lacks a certain type of specificity-- there are hardly any sensory details. Why then does it work? Because the specificity actually required by story has very little to do with sensory details and more to do with maintaining a course between our two guides: plot and subtext.

The best way to understand how to do this on one’s own, with or without the guidance of a willing teacher, is to try and see each side of the road in the stories you consume, tracing both plot and subtext from start to finish. The often wonderful and surprising ways in which subtext guides the writer is perhaps the most satisfying investigations one can make into story and will do much more to help the developing writer than a blind allegiance to Show Don’t Tell.

In closing, let’s consider a different and perhaps more helpful interpretation of this catchy slogan, by linking it instead to subtext: Show your subtext, but don’t tell or explain it. Let it sit just beyond what is easily detectable, and readers will rightly think it’s magic.