Today’s readers expect a story to be shown to them, not told to them, so even if you’re a big fan of telling, a publisher won’t accept your piece unless you show what’s going on, and readers are more likely to give you bad reviews if most of your story is telling. It’s important to have at least heard that you should show, don’t tell. And many people will trot out Chekhov’s wisdom about blood on glass in the moonlight, but that never actually helped me figure out precisely what I should do to show, not tell. It wasn’t until I started taking editing classes that I saw how this should be approached.
There are (at least) three ways to finagle the words of your story so that it is better shown than told. This article will cover the first way: dealing with chronology.
I blame English classes for this one. When we’re in school, we’re taught we need to have transitional words to move our essays along, so we are encouraged to use terms like “first,” or “then,” or “next.” You don’t want to use those when writing fiction unless they’re in dialogue. (Anything goes, in dialogue.)
Here’s an example. This reads like a list, not a story.
First, Jacob drew his sword. Then he swung it in an arc, neatly decapitating the bandit captain. Blood flew, spattering the face of the bandit behind the captain. Next, Marcy stabbed the bloodstained bandit. Finally, once both of the bandits were dead, the duo cleaned and sheathed their blades.
Or you could write,
Jacob drew his sword. He swung it in an arc, neatly decapitating the bandit captain. Blood flew, spattering the face of the bandit behind the captain. Marcy stabbed the bloodstained bandit. The bandits dead, the duo cleaned and sheathed their blades.
All I did was take out the transition words and the adverb “once,” and, while it’s not the best fiction I ever wrote, the second version does more showing than the first.
Hm. Let’s see if I can improve…
Jacob’s sword shrieked free of his scabbard. He swung it, the blade flashing in the morning sunlight, and it caught and slid through the neck of the bandit captain. Blood flew, decorating the face of the bandit who’d pressed so closely behind his captain that he could not evade Marcy’s low thrust. The bandit captain’s head and the body of his second hit the ground with a double thunk. Panting, Jacob stared at what he’d done. He was now a person who could cut off another person’s head.
He had to clean his sword. Didn’t people usually do that on the bodies of the dead?
A corner of the captain’s cloak fluttered in the rising breeze. Jacob cleaned his blade with it. Doing so wasn’t disrespectful of the dead, was it?
“Those two deserved to die,” Marcy said. “They were going to rob us.” She made short work of cleaning her blade.
“I don’t know.” Jacob couldn’t bear to sheathe his sword. Not yet. He’d cleaned it, but it still felt bloodstained. “Do people deserve to die because they want something you own?”
Marcy smirked. “You’re too soft-hearted for this. You should go home.” Her blade slid into its scabbard. “You wanna put that up, or are you going to hold it all day?”