Show Don't Tell: That Pesky Creative Writing Advice

In an early Steemit post (one that I shared when I had three followers), I mentioned that strong scenework (that is showing and not just telling) is the thing that will help push your creative writing forward. I mentioned that it sounds basic—show don’t tell. This is a tiny phrase writing instructors scroll in the margins of their students’ work. But, this is a skill that takes time and practice to pull it off.   

Since I’ve been writing posts for Steem for the last few weeks, I’ve also been motivated to dust off the Young Adult novel manuscript that I’ve had sitting in a folder on my desktop. I thought I’d show you a scene I’ve been working on. 

But first, let’s go over some of what we are trying to accomplish with scenes in our stories in the first place (if you’re interested, the earlier post goes into much more detail).    

SHOW DON’T TELL 

1. Scenes should give the reader a vicarious experience (almost as if they are standing outside the frame of a story and watching it unfold). Strong scenes often have a cinematic feel to them. I find, as a reader, I prefer to be pulled in through action/scene and then receive backstory or exposition where necessary. That’s not to say that exposition isn’t engaging, but I think it provides a more difficult entry point into a story (or chapter). The scene I've shared below is the first two paragraphs of a new chapter. 

2. Strong scenes often include clear images. The insertion of clear images, that a reader can link to images elsewhere, can start to pull a thread through a story. In my scene below, I’m developing my character’s anxiety, and really zooming in on the image of blood—which is important because it provides an immediate obstacle for her to overcome, but also makes something larger (and regularly) at stake.     

3. Include scene (show) when it’s valuable to do so. This is key. As writers, we certainly do not want to lock ourselves into scene after endless scene.   

For instance, it isn’t always important to show your reader how a character gets from Point A to Point B. If something feels skimmable to you when you are writing it, the reader will skim too.  We want to use scene to do work for our story: that may mean give weight to important story moments (an argument, a struggle, an interaction) or to develop character (to see them in action and to believe their emotions). 

For instance, in the scene I’m working on, it is important for me to SHOW my character’s anxiety (which, for her, manifests as nosebleeds) rather than just tell the reader that she is anxious. For one, the reader may not believe it. Showing allows the reader to buy in. And, if I show that anxiety at least once in the story, when I mention her anxiety elsewhere the reader will remember. I don’t need to show it one hundred times, but instead maybe just two or three (in different scenarios). Hopefully, the reader will remember how the blood “ruin[ed] clothes and carpets, sheets and blankets.”   

DRAFT OF A SCENE  

This is certainly not a final version, but I’m starting to build this scene… I hope you find it useful to read a scene in progress.         

Water rushed through the old pipes in the ceiling, but before I knew what the noise was, my mind was flooded by the final sequence of my dream: I pushed my face up through the surface of the water—maybe I was in a bathtub. I was on my back, and my body felt light, and then it felt heavy as I pushed back and went under again.  

I woke up and flung the covers off and my body forward. I gasped for air. I was covered in sweat and thought I had some dripping down my face, but when I rubbed it, my fingers were dripping with dark, red liquid. My nose was bleeding and I’d smeared blood, not sweat, across my face. The pipes above swished and squealed. I pulled my t-shirt up and over my head to use to stop the blood from gushing down my face and I felt my anxiety—metallic and salty—trickle down the back of my throat. While leaned back, I pinched the bridge of my nose as I held my balled-up shirt against it. If my anxiety didn’t cause breathing problems—too much air or not enough air—or stomach problems—too many knots or too many spins—it caused nosebleeds. I’d spent hours of my childhood with my head over the toilet, letting the blood pour into the bowl, ruining clothes and carpets, sheets and blankets.  

Happy writing!