Show, Don’t Tell: A Guide with Examples

Apr 1

Writers are often told, "show don't tell." But what does that actually mean, and more importantly, how do you do it?

In this blog post, we'll explore what ‘show don't tell’ means and provide examples of how to do it effectively.

All the examples of ‘showing’ in this post come directly from participants in our ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ challenges. These take place in our Love to Write Facebook group and they’re a great way to hone your ‘show, don’t tell’ skills.

What do we mean by ‘show, don’t tell’?

The goal of any piece of fiction should be to hijack your reader’s imagination and ability to empathise in order to elicit some kind of emotional response. You want your reader to feel something when they read your words. Any kind of feeling will do! What you do not want is for your reader to come to the end of your story, to have understood everything that happened, but felt nothing.

Very often when people start out writing fiction they believe that the plot is the thing. They think if they tell the reader about an interesting series of events, they will have created an interesting story. Unfortunately, it’s just not that simple.

If you don’t believe us, try telling someone everything that happened in a dream you had and then watch as their eyes glaze over! Dreams are amazing because they include enough texture and detail to make us believe they are actually happening. You should want your writing to feel the same.

So, what is ‘telling?’

‘Telling’ is when you tell the reader something outright. For example, you are writing about a man called Richard. Richard was divorced and you want your reader to know this. So, you type: Richard was divorced. That’s telling. You’re telling your reader that Richard was divorced.

A new character comes into your story. You want your reader to know that he was seventeen, so you type: He was seventeen. That’s telling. You are telling your reader that he was seventeen.

Your story takes place on a cold day in December. You type: It was a cold day in December. That’s telling. You’re telling your reader that the story takes place on a cold day in December.

Ok, so what is ‘showing’?

‘Showing’ is when you give the same information, but in a way that allows the reader to figure it out for themselves. This is because showing is participatory, telling is passive.

‘Showing’ is when you add texture to your writing, making the reader feel like they are experiencing the story for themselves. Too much ‘telling’ doesn’t feel real. In real life we get so much of our information through experience.

When we go outside, we don’t need to be told it’s raining because we can see it splashing on the pavement and feel the drops on our faces. So, if you’re writing about a rainy day, instead of ‘telling’ the reader it’s raining, ‘show’ the reader the rain splashing on the pavement.

Similarly, when we are introduced to someone at a party, we often don’t need to be told what kind of person they are. We can tell by the way they look, how they carry themselves, what they say, how they behave. So, when you introduce your readers to a new character, don’t ‘tell’ them what that character is like, ‘show’ them instead.

So, writing with too much ‘telling’ feels like simply being told a story, whereas writing that uses ‘showing’ feels like actually experiencing the story as you read it.

So, a good writer always shows and never tells?

ah… no.

A good writer knows when to tell and when to show. Too much ‘telling’ can make your writing dull and flat. Too much ‘showing’ can destroy the pace of your story and weigh it down. It’s up to each individual writer to decide when and how to show.

There are no hard and fast rules in writing. When you read any piece of writing advice it should always be the beginning of a process. After reading it, you should go back to you work and try to figure out if your writing would be improved by following the advice. (The answer won’t always be yes.)

However, ‘show, don’t tell’ has become the golden rule of writing because almost all writing that relies too much on ‘telling’ would be improved by more ‘showing’. That’s because the fundamental goal of fiction is for it to be immersive and ‘showing’ is the best way to achieve that.

I’m definitely telling too much. How can I change this?

The best time to make these changes is in the edit. Don’t worry too much about ‘showing’ in your first or even second draft. Many writers use their first and second draft to get as much on the page as they can without losing forward momentum.

Whenever you feel you’ve reached an impasse in your editing, it might be time to do a ‘show, don’t tell’ edit.

Go through your story and underline every instance of telling. That means any time you give the reader a piece of information outright.
Work on each example individually. Try to find a way to ‘show’ instead of ‘tell’.
When you’ve created a neat bit of showing to replace the telling, go ahead and switch them out.
Your ‘showing’ won’t necessarily work best in exactly the same place as the ‘telling’. Don’t be afraid to move things around a bit.
You might need to break up one piece of ‘showing’ into several bits and add them to your writing separately.
It’s a very good idea to keep your original drafts. There is going to be a lot of trial and error and you need to be able to revert back to your previous versions!
Reread your story.
Make sure the new ‘showing’ bits are working.
Look out for instances where the showing is too bloated. Find ways to simplify and streamline these. Remember, showing doesn’t necessarily have to be longer than one sentence!
Don’t be afraid to revert back to the original ‘telling’ here and there. Trust your instincts.

Examples:

To demonstrate how you can rewrite ‘telling’ into ‘showing’, we’re going to share some entries from our ‘Show, Don’t Tell’ challenges. We gave participants the task of rewriting each example of ‘telling’ into ‘showing’. Here are some of our favourites:

Telling: Richard was divorced

Showing:

Richard rubbed at the mark on the fourth finger of his left hand. It had been weeks since he had removed the ring, but the skin underneath remained obstinately pale, standing out like scar tissue against his suntan. He felt the sting of failure each time he looked at it.
Richard’s shirts were no longer crisp and ironed. His trousers hung on his thinning hips, wrinkled and stained. He had a scruffy unloved air about him matching his uncut hair. Being single wasn’t agreeing with him.
The best thing in Richard’s life at the moment was sitting in the middle of the sofa in his underpants, eating pork scratchings and watching YouTube.
Richard traced the impression on his finger where his wedding band used to live.
Richard imagined there was a flashing neon sign on his forehead announcing to the world he was a failure. It seemed people he passed on the street looked at him differently since he’d signed the papers.
Richard’s kitchen looks immaculate. No dirty dishes on the sink. No oil stains on the backsplash. And yet, it is perturbing, for where a Dutch oven used to be, there is only a faded dish towel. And where there should be two coffee mugs, there is only one.
Richard traces the pale line on his ring finger. His leathery skin is perfectly tanned, save that ghostly mark. It draws his attention often, taunting him, a constant reminder of his failure.
Richard now owned half a house, half a car and half a box full of memories that would take a lifetime to fade.
Crumpled creases in his shirt and trousers gave the game away. Stubble gathered around his chin, a burgeoning stomach suggested too much fast food and alcohol and there was a naked band of pale skin around a finger on his left hand.
Like a phantom limb, Richard still felt the presence of the wedding ring on his finger, long after the papers had been signed and the final decree entered.

Telling: She put on a new dress

Showing:

The silk slid down her body in a cascade, impeded only by the price tag that had snagged in her hair.
The unbroken price tag caught around her neck as she pulled the dress over her shoulders.
Removing the price tag, she shivered as the cool silk slid over her body, revealing every curve.
It smelled of chemicals as it slid over her head.
The material was smooth and flattering, except the scratchy tag she’d poked down the nape of her neck.
The snap of the price tag coming away was satisfying. The stiff, unworn material rustled as she put it over her head.
She kept the label on just in case she felt differently later.
In a practised movement she tucked the tag back out of sight.
She remembered it being brighter in the store, more elegant.
She twirled this way and that, trying to recreate the magic she had experienced in the shop’s changing room. She couldn’t remember it sitting quite so awkwardly then.
How she loved the smell of clothes fresh from the store!
The price tag poked at the skin between her shoulder blades.

Telling: It was an old, dilapidated building

Showing:

The building was ghost-quiet, save for the pleasant tinkling of an old wind chime and whoosh of breeze that danced in through broken windows and cracks in the wall.
Time had worn the brick edges away and the crumbling walls no longer held themselves upright against the relentless wind.
Hydrangeas scaled the walls, their stems climbing all around a building now long condemned. Where once were windows, they snaked in; their patient descent promising the meeting of petals shrouded in green and the ashen floor caked with dust and rubble – sorry remnants of a once great thing.
The building had an air of lonely mystery to it. Long-forgotten shadows danced around thick spider’s webs in dusty corners.
The decaying structure leaned weakly to one side like a tired old man. In this house, everything creaked – doors that turned lazily on rusty hinges, taps that no longer ran, loose floorboards and even the tattered roof upon the crumbling walls.
Weeds surged unchecked between the stones and its cracked windows looked down on the world sorrowfully. Its swinging door creaked in the wind, offering no invitation to enter.
The building had been colonised – nest of pigeons in the fireplace, dray of squirrels in the bookcase and maniples of ants had conquered the kitchen hinterland.
The house reminded him of an old bottle of vintage wine. Underneath the dust and the cobwebs, there was a soul. You didn’t acquire that overnight. In fact, most modern, prefab houses never acquired it at all.
The building remembered itself as it was. Faded, warped floorboards had once been cherry-wood, echoing with the sounds of children’s footsteps. Broken, shattered windows had once held warmth in for a growing family. The house held firmly to fond memories.
The once grand ballroom now housed rats, dancing and skittling across the broken parquet floor.
The building sat back, peering at the road through cracked eyes. Only ghosts now walked its rotting floorboards; only words long forgotten whispered around its walls.
The sun bounded off crumbing brick walls. Rotting wood beams crossed over the broken glass of the windows. The structure seemed to be held up by piles of trash and rotting wood, barely holding itself together.
Consumed by rampant ivy and the relentless force of entropy, the building stood forlorn and decayed; a three-dimensional architectural ghost.
The building had begun to list, bricks crumbling, forgotten debris scattered amongst the brambles. Ivy had crept across the walls, tendrils winding over rotting window frames, like worms sliding through empty eye sockets.
The odour of rotten wood, half the roof caved in and weeds growing from the foundation made the ‘Keep Out’ signs on the old entryways unnecessary.
The rafters showed through the roof like dried ribs on a desiccated carcass.
The whole house groaned with the sheer exhaustion of time. It sighed against every breath of wind, sinking lower into its foundations.
Vines stretched greedy fingers, digging their claws into the crumbling walls.
Nature reclaimed where industry had reigned supreme. The roof tiles were all but gone and exposed beams criss-crossed the blue sky.
The weather-ravaged door hung askew and from within came the dank breath of decay.

Telling: Sophie’s health was deteriorating

Showing:

Sophie counted the pills, and counted them again. There were so many now that it was easy to lose track. She sat in her father’s chair, where she always sat now, feet heavy with fluid, and pretended she could still taste the pills.
Her bottles of pills were lined up like soldiers in a battle they could not win.
She had been to the hospital so often now that she felt like a member of an exclusive club. But her membership was revealed not by a badge, but by ever more scar-tissue.
Sophie groaned as she straightened up. She thought longingly of the days when she had started each morning with a lithe salute to the sun.
Sophie told her family she was feeling better. Meticulously, she applied blusher to sallow cheeks and concealer to darkening circles under her eyes.
Sophie felt as if this sickness had chewed her up and spit her out as a shape that hardly resembled human anymore. She knew that tomorrow she would hurt more and be less alive.
Sophie was no longer able to squeeze oranges for her morning juice.
Sophie put down the framed photo of her young, vibrant self, took in a deep breath, and fought the urge not to kick the dreaded walker over.

Telling: He was an old man

Showing:

A few strands of hair snaked across his smooth scalp. Faded blue eyes regarded the world with weary bemusement.
Opening his Facebook page was a daily coming of age: nothing but adverts for cures for erectile dysfunction, will-writing services and cheap funerals.
He slowly raised his liver-spotted hand to adjust his glasses.
Skin of wrinkled parchment crinkled as he smiled. His shoes that once tap danced their way access dance hall floors now shed flakes of leather as cracking feet stumbled.
Fingers barely able to curl around his walking stick and breaths that sounded like a dog coming back from a morning run.
His memories far outnumbered any he could still hope to make.
Smooth tanned skin replaced by leathery folds. Everything slower, jagged, rougher.
Time had moulded his face into someone he barely recognised.
His skin, translucent, mottled with purple bruising, told how he’d been bumping into things a lot lately.
Thin arms of wrinkled skin lie decorated with wartime tattoos and sparse white hairs amongst purple-blotched maps.
Below a head of thinned white hair were sunken cataract eyes and deep age lines from nose to chin.
Eyes, rheumy and bloodshot, peered out from caterpillar-like brows.
His memory tricked him, remembering things from long ago, but refusing to yield up what he'd had for dinner just an hour ago.
He sat slowly, hands on the table to take his weight, as if his knees had just given way, or as if he thought that any second, they might.
Age may have caught up to him physically, but his eyes shone in kid-like wonder.
In the depths of his canny eyes, blue beneath tufted white brows, the pull of memory and old grief could drown the unwary.
Everything was now either too heavy, too far away, too small, too soft.
Of all the infirmities that visited in later life, the inability to hold his saliva stung the most.
His cane, with his wrinkly hand wrapped around it, never supports him enough to finally make haste. It’s as if the urgency of life has already left his body.
His head was bowed down to paving slabs, forgotten pennies, and puddles like deep wells that made hasty portraits of his lined face.

Telling: Rachel had failed her exam

Showing:

Rachel ripped open the letter scanning till her eyes stalled on a single word. Her eyes welled with tears and she crumpled the page, stuffing it inside her school bag.
She gasped in surprise as she saw the letter ‘F’ printed next to her name.
Her dreams turned to dust as she contemplated the absence of her name on the admissions list.
Rachel sighed when she saw the ‘F’ on her physics paper.
Head bowed, she crumpled the exam paper in her clenched fist.
She was officially a failure; the examination board said so.
A hot sensation crept across her neck, her mouth became dry and her stomach tightened. I should have revised more, she thought. Maybe if I’d paid more attention in class…
Rachel stared at the failing grade with wide-eyed horror.

Telling: It was a cold day

Showing:

The foggy breath of a dozen commuters hovered in the air above the bus stop.
Two ponies grazed by the chalk stream, plumes of white dragons’ breath rising from their nostrils.
She stared at the kitchen, counting the number of freezing steps to the coffee plunger.
The car needed de-icing again.
The trees stood dark and impassive against their bleak backdrop, barren limbs trembling as an icy breeze swept past.
Icicles hung off tree branches as fat snowflakes fell soundlessly from the sky.
You could see your breath.
Criss-crossed on the garden fence, spiderwebs glistened like crystal dream catchers. Children skipped down the lane and laughed as they made dragon breath in the air.
Snowdrops hung their delicate heads under the weight of fresh frost.
A light breeze rattled through the trees, causing the stiff leaves to sound out a scratchy melody.
That day the rosy cheeked and runny nosed didn’t stop to appreciate the flowers.
The wind blew its silent, icy breath through the buttonholes of her coat.
The grey sky lowered with the promise of snow.

Telling: Bobby got lost on the way back

Showing:

They tumbled inside, raucous with laughter and wailing like drunken banshees till a gust of cold night air from the open door behind her caused Helen to turn and ask, ‘Where’s Bobby?’
All the paths appeared the same, whichever way he looked.
As he stumbled around yet another unfamiliar corner, Bobby finally admitted he was in trouble.
On the journey back, the roads were unfamiliar. They bent at the wrong angles, followed signposts that displayed the wrong words.
Bobby looked around, scratching his head. How can everything seem so different, he wondered, just because you’re travelling in the wrong direction?
Bobby stopped and looked around him, his stomach turning as he scanned the horizon; searching for something familiar to help retrace his steps.

Love to write? Writing competitions are a great way to hone your skills, get some exposure, and perhaps win a cash prize. Our ‘Big List of International Writing Competitions is a great place to look for writing competitions.