Writing teachers repeat show, don’t tell like a religious chant, and most of them can’t explain it. The useful version is simpler than they make it.
A writer who’s been told to show still has to decide what to do with each sentence, and the slogan gives no help with that. For a book-length look at the problem, see Show, Don’t Tell.
Few pieces of writing advice have done more damage to newer writers than this one in the hands of people who can’t explain it. They hear it in every workshop, apply it to every sentence, and turn a lean manuscript into a bloated one where every trip to the kitchen gets a paragraph of trembling hands. The people repeating the slogan rarely have to read the result, and I think that’s why it never gets questioned.
What does telling look like in fiction?
When you tell a reader that a character is brave, the reader has to take your word for it.Share on X
Writing teachers repeat show, don’t tell like a religious chant, and most of them can’t explain it.
Telling states a fact about a character, emotion, or situation. It gives the reader information directly. For more, see ways to show heartfelt author appreciation and the girl boss problem.
“Marcus was angry.” That’s telling. The reader knows Marcus is angry because the writer said so. There’s nothing wrong with this sentence. It’s clear and efficient. But it doesn’t make the reader feel anything, and the reader has no reason to believe it beyond the writer’s assertion.
“The restaurant was expensive.” Also telling. The reader notes the fact and moves on. No image forms. No sensory experience occurs.
“Sarah was a kind person.” Telling again. The reader is instructed to believe Sarah is kind. Whether readers buy it depends entirely on what Sarah does, and telling them how to feel about her is a waste of ink.
Watch: Show, Don't Tell Writing Technique | EasyTeaching, EasyTeaching
What does showing look like in fiction?
Showing provides evidence and lets the reader draw the conclusion.
“Marcus slammed the phone on the counter, cracking the screen. He stared at it for three seconds, then swept it off the edge into the trash can.” The reader concludes Marcus is angry (furious, in fact) without being told, and also learns something specific about how Marcus handles anger: he’s destructive and deliberate. That’s characterization delivered through action instead of summary.
“The menu had no prices. The waiter described each course as a ‘preparation’ and poured water from a bottle that probably cost more than lunch at any other restaurant in the city.” The reader concludes the restaurant is expensive. They also have a sensory experience: they can see the menu, hear the waiter, picture the water bottle. The scene exists in space instead of in summary.
“When the new kid dropped his tray in the cafeteria, Sarah was the only one who didn’t laugh. She walked over, handed him a napkin, and sat down next to him without saying a word.” The reader concludes Sarah is kind. More importantly, the reader believes it because they watched it happen. No assertion required.
Why does showing work better than telling?
Showing works because it engages the reader’s judgment instead of bypassing it. When you tell a reader that a character is brave, the reader has to take your word for it. When you show a character doing something brave, the reader decides for themselves. That decision creates investment. The reader has participated in understanding the character instead of being handed a label. Showing also creates images. A scene that exists in physical space (with objects, actions, sounds, textures) occupies the reader’s imagination differently than a summary. Readers remember scenes. They forget summaries.
That’s why I push writers so hard on showing in the scenes that matter. A reader who’s handed a label feels managed, and a reader who feels managed starts skimming. You won’t win that reader back by telling them louder.
When Is Telling Better Than Showing?
Show versus tell is a tool for knowing when each approach serves the story. Telling is right for transitions, for minor information the reader needs but doesn’t need to experience, and for pacing. If a character drives from New York to Boston and nothing important happens during the drive, “She arrived in Boston by late afternoon” is better than three paragraphs of highway scenery.
Telling is also suitable when the telling itself reveals character. A first-person narrator who says “I’m not a jealous person” and then behaves jealously throughout the chapter: that telling is doing work. The gap between what the narrator claims and what the reader observes creates irony and depth.
Telling itself isn’t the problem. The problem is telling when showing would be more effective, which is any moment where the reader needs to feel something, believe something, or experience something instead of simply know it.
Where does showing matter most?
Emotion. “She was sad” versus a scene where she sits in her car in the parking lot for twenty minutes after the funeral, engine running, not driving anywhere. Told emotion is forgettable. Shown emotion is felt.
Character traits. “He was generous” versus a scene where he quietly pays someone else’s bill and leaves before they notice. Labels tell the reader what to think about a character. Actions let the reader discover the character.
Setting. “The house was run down” versus peeling paint, a screen door hanging from one hinge, and a lawn mower rusting in knee-high grass. Told setting is a fact. Shown setting is a place the reader can stand in.
Tension. “The situation was dangerous” versus the specific details that make the reader’s stomach tighten: the sound, the proximity, the character’s physical response. Told danger is a news report. Shown danger is an experience.
Relationships. “They loved each other” against the small specific behaviors that show it. The way one character instinctively hands the other their coffee the right way. Or finishes their sentence without thinking about it. Told relationships are assertions. Shown relationships are convincing.
What are the most common mistakes when showing in fiction?
Purple prose disguised as showing. “Her crystalline azure orbs shimmered with the luminescent tears of unspoken sorrow” is overwriting, and it’s maddening, because the writer usually thinks it’s the best sentence on the page. Showing requires specificity and restraint. The goal is a clear image, and vocabulary that tries to impress the reader gets in the way.
Showing everything. A manuscript that shows every emotion, every room, every meal, and every car ride will be 200,000 words long and exhausting to read. Show the moments that matter. Tell the transitions between them.
Showing without purpose. A lovingly detailed description of a character who shows up once and does nothing is wasted ink. Every shown detail should do work: reveal character, establish mood, create tension, or advance the plot.
Telling disguised as showing. “She clenched her fists angrily” is still telling. The word “angrily” names the emotion, and the clenched fists become a prop instead of evidence. “She clenched her fists” is showing, and the reader infers the anger. The adverb undermines the image.
| Mistake | What it looks like | Fix |
|---|---|---|
| Purple prose disguised as showing | Stacked, ornate vocabulary trying to impress the reader | Use specificity and restraint to build one clear image. |
| Showing everything | Every emotion, room, meal and car ride gets a full scene | Show the moments that matter; tell the transitions between them. |
| Showing without purpose | A lovingly detailed character who appears once and does nothing | Make each detail reveal character, set mood, build tension, or advance plot. |
| Telling disguised as showing | “She clenched her fists angrily” | Cut the adverb that names the emotion and let the action work. |
How can you test whether a passage shows or tells?
Read any passage in your manuscript and ask: could the reader draw this conclusion from the evidence I’ve provided, or am I asking them to believe me? If the answer is “believe me,” find the action or the detail that gets the reader to the same conclusion on their own. The moment they work it out for themselves is the moment they start caring. Not every passage needs to show, but the scenes where your characters change and the stakes peak always do.
My take
Show the scenes where your characters change, and tell the rest. Writers who show every meal and car ride end up with 200,000 exhausting words. Cut the adverb that names the emotion and let the action do the work. Watch for purple prose posing as showing, too. Test a passage by asking whether the reader could reach the conclusion from the evidence. If you’re asking them to believe you, find the detail that proves it.
One More Example
Look at this photo from a Renaissance Festival. 
Telling: “The woman at the Renaissance Festival was beautiful and wore ethnic jewelry.” That’s a caption, not a scene. The reader notes the information and moves on. Showing: “Her brass and crystal ornaments clinked when she turned, catching the afternoon light. She cocked her head, one eyebrow raised, daring someone in the crowd to say something worth her time. When no one did, she tossed her hair and walked away, scarves trailing behind her like she had somewhere better to be.”
Same woman. But now the reader can see her, hear her jewelry, and understand her personality. The writer never had to call her confident or beautiful, because her behavior showed both. For a deeper exploration of this technique with extended examples, see Show Don’t Tell.
Telling isn’t a crime, and writers shouldn’t get scolded as if it were.
Summaries move a story along, and not every moment deserves a full scene. The instructors who hand out the slogan without the judgment behind it have cost a lot of good writers years of confusion. Show the moments that matter, tell the rest, and stop apologizing for either.
Show Don’t Tell is my book on the advice everyone gives and nobody explains. It has more than a hundred before and after examples across twenty-one chapters.
