A picture may be worth a thousand words, but how many words does it take to paint said picture?
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” ― Anton Chekhov
A dark and stormy night, the furrow in someone’s brow, a ringing in the narrator’s ear, even the smell of coffee brewing: all of these sensory details can help convey a certain mood or explain something about a particular point in a story without their writer having to spell it all out like an instruction manual or a textbook.
If you’ve studied creative writing at all, then you’ve heard that showing is always better than telling. For those of you who aren’t as familiar with the concept, showing srefers to literary illustrations of emotions and even sometimes actions that inform readers using a more roundabout (though no less effective) method, as opposed to explaining the circumstances in the most straightforward manner possible. Both methods are key to a truly immersive storytelling experience, but in most cases, showing is in fact the way to go. After all, who wants to read a fantasy novel or a historical romance in which every character’s reaction is described like the following: “He was heartbroken.” “She was happy.” Wouldn’t it be preferable to know that the author trusted you enough to be able to make these observations on your own through helpful hints embedded in the narrative like hunched shoulders, a closed-off expression, or a spring in one’s step? Showing is just a more refined strategy to help writers get their points across while ensuring that their audience is still so hooked on the story that it takes a few nudges from the real world to snap them back out of it.
Still, there are exceptions to every rule. Sometimes, you simply have to tell your readers what’s going on. For instance, lofty metaphors and introspection rarely belong in a fast-paced action sequence because the point is not to inspire deep, philosophical thought, but to depict the immediacy of the situation and move the plot forward. A punch in the face adds to the excitement and tension of a conflict, but it is anything except subtle―unlike physical and atmospheric cues that tell us without telling us about a character’s emotional response, the vibe of a room in the wake of an argument, etc.
So how do you decide when showing is no longer superior to telling (or vice versa), and how can you tailor your approach to get the most out of your preferred methods? I’ve outlined a few classic storytelling strategies below to help you get started, but these aren’t foolproof formulas, and no two stories are exactly alike. Feel free to explore and tweak these as needed.
Au naturel
The weather and other elements of nature don’t just set the scene, but can also influence the tone of a narrative without stating the obvious. For one, the natural world is something just about everyone can easily picture in their mind, even if a writer describes someplace a reader has never been. After all, the digital age has made it easier than ever to travel the globe without leaving one’s couch. For another, nature and weather patterns―even the appearance of specific animals―cover the spectrum of moods and connotations.
Take that storm I mentioned at the beginning of this post as an example. Most people automatically associate storms with negativity. They can be scary, unpredictable, even dangerous. But the ways in which storms manifest can indeed vary, and knowing how to accurately depict them will help clue your reader in on what exactly you want them to feel as they read without explicitly telling them that’s what you were going for. Roiling ocean waves and gusting winds convey chaos. Thunder and lightning are designed to make your audience jumpy and skittish. However, if you introduce pitter-pattering rain on the roof and rainwater quietly dribbling through the gutters, readers could easily picture it as part of a quintessential, lazy morning lie-in. Gently flickering lights hint at a quieter inconvenience, a sinister sort of constant to continue well after the storm has died down.
Now, let’s look at what influence the local fauna may have on the finer details that hammer in overarching themes and crucial objectives within a story. It’s no secret that different animals can have different symbolic meanings as well as practical implications; wolves are often the bad guys in fairy tales and fantasy novels because they are deadly, but in many real-world cultures they symbolize loyalty and intelligence. And, just like other elements of nature, an author may use personification to further emphasize the iconic qualities of a species and add to the implications of a narrative. A flock of birds can underscore a character’s perception of change, a new beginning versus the closing of a chapter, or the need to escape the reality of their current situation.
More than a feeling
When you’re in the weeds with a story, it can be so tempting to leave complicated emotions at something like, “Bob was confused.” Unless you’re writing for a younger audience, though, that’s just not going to cut it. Most readers will see a statement like that and think, “Well, duh.” That gives way to boredom and even the sense that the author didn’t trust them or think they were smart enough to put two and two together, all of which takes them out of the story and makes them less likely to pick it back up again. No pressure, right?
Rather than succumb to the temptation to take the easy route, consider how you might show your audience what’s going on in a character’s head. Earlier in this post, I mentioned things like posture, facial expressions, and even one’s gait. Some authors go so far as to alter a character’s wardrobe or physical appearance to help them communicate complex feelings and mental or emotional states that often defy the limits of any direct explanations or descriptions the limited human brain can conjure up.
Then there’s something as simple and easily described as one’s the inflection of one’s voice. Combined with the right choice of words (and even when it isn’t), a person’s tone can not only run the gamut of pitches and sounds, but also convey a number of thoughts and feelings that the speaker never has to outwardly cop to. Dialogue tags may be a nuisance for some readers, but they can be handy, too. Shouted, grumbled, whimpered, cried, chuckled: all of these carry with them certain connotations that help guide your audience’s interpretation of a scene without you having to say that someone was angry, sad or happy, and therefore so is this part of the story.
Paint it (COLOR)
Color psychology and utilizing shadows versus light can have a tremendous impact when it comes to the mood of a story and saying something without actually coming right out and saying it. Think of it this way; when was the last time a combination of black and purple made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Or, has anyone ever tried painting a haunted castle in soft shades of green and blue, or―god forbid―yellow? Those hues would be confusing enough in the real world; there’s no reason to think you could get away with such a nonintuitive strategy in fiction.
A dank attic, for one, should feature colors that describe its state of disrepair not just for accuracy, but also to bring the theme of decay to the forefront of other issues in the story. Graying wood, stains or signs of charring, faded curtains that may have once been white, but are now so dingy that they’re a sickly yellow: all of this states what the place looks like as well as what it feels like, and you know that this probably won’t be the scene of a sweeping romance or a touching family reunion. A character who spends a lot of time there might be depressed or haunted by something, and while you could come right out and say that, it’s far more interesting for readers to piece it all together and apply all of these colors to the canvas you’ve sketched out for them.
Likewise, the right amount of shadow can make or break the mood of a particular setting and therefore help or hurt your intentional message. Shadow and color alone can define beginnings versus endings, action or the decline thereof. With the right combination and manipulation of their common traits, sunsets can be soothing or sinister as they bring on the darkness and dangers of nighttime; sunrises can lose their inspirational luster when they reveal damage inflicted during the night. This is where interchanging soft colors―pink, yellow, blue―and commanding ones―red, orange, black―comes in handy. Dynamic shadows highlight, hide, or even visually alter what’s happening through the narrator’s eyes, but what that means for your characters is entirely up to you as the writer.
A talkie or a silent film?
Never underestimate the power of silence. Want to ramp up the tension in an argument? Cut the sound right in the middle of it. Your characters could be screaming at each other, and then, all of a sudden, they both stop and come to some momentous decision in the heat of the moment. There are also sad silences, reflective ones, and we’ve all experienced silence that’s just really damn awkward.
That being said, sound is also your friend―even if they’re random, otherwise nonessential noises that you use to draw a sharper contrast to that aforementioned silence. In that argument’s tense interim, while your characters are giving their vocal cords a break, your audience could read about the hollow hammering of the narrator’s heart as it counts the seconds until someone breaks the silence with a cutting statement that will seal their fates. Play up on awkward silence by accentuating someone’s flaming cheeks growing warmer with the slow grinding gears of the elevator, a third party’s forced cough in the background of an otherwise quiet room. Grief can be conveyed through the chilling wails and plaintive sobs of a widower, anticipation or anxiety through the pronounced ticking of a clock, and peace by the rustling of the grass or a babbling stream off in the distance.
Objectification
No, this is not in reference to using prejudices or crude interactions in your novel to make a point (although I suppose that might work, too, depending on what you’re trying to get at). Believe it or not, literal objects can help writers add depth to a setting as well as other aspects of a particular scene not just by beefing up their physical descriptions, but also by establishing key points of reference and significance that readers can follow along with until the end of the story.
Just as with sounds, these objects don’t necessarily have to hold any importance on their own. Sure, it helps catch eyes if the pocket watch is solid gold and doubles as a key for that hidden door behind the bookshelf. But, if it’s a tarnished heirloom that doesn’t even keep time properly anymore, it might symbolize the passing of time in general. The first scenario is perfect for adding a touch of mystery, building suspense, and giving the readers a sense of adventure. But maybe you want to reinforce the nostalgia of someone sorting through a relative’s long-forgotten possessions, while equally dusty memories rise to the surface with each object pulled out of the box. You might write out those memories that it’s associated with, which in turn would communicate your character’s feelings about them, but the tangible object solidifies the experience and drives home points that even words often fail to express. Maybe its wearer is feeling more and more obsolete by the day and develops a sort of kinship with the aging timepiece. In this case, the faulty pocket watch isn’t shiny or particularly useful, but it remains valuable and therefore lends an additional layer to your character’s identity in the long run.
Using concrete terms to convey the abstract is tough, but it pays to take the winding scenic route from time to time. It’s an exercise in intuition more often than not, but readers across the board will always appreciate that crystallizing moment in which you finally figure out how to show what you mean without actually telling them all about it in so many words.
K. Watkins 