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Don’t tell me how you feel: showing emotions
The lie from the First Crusader Challenge? I don’t have any brothers: three younger sisters. When I went to college, they got a rabbit. Seriously.
The major pitfall most of us face when writing emotions is falling into the trap of telling. But to engage our readers, simply stating “she was scared” or “he was angry” isn’t going to suffice.
This is just another example of one of those old writing rules: show, don’t tell. But this time, the rule rings true. Take this example from Flogging the Quill:
The scene: Anna is beat from a long, bad day at work and now she’s spent hours at the hospital with her father, who has been unconscious for days. You want to give the reader Anna’s physical and emotional condition. This author wrote:
Anna was physically and mentally exhausted.
Sure, you get information. You have an intellectual understanding of her condition. But you have no feeling for what Anna feels like, do you? To show that Anna is physically and mentally exhausted, you could write this:
All Anna wanted to do was crawl into bed and go to sleep. But first she would cry. She didn’t think she could be calm and composed for another minute.
Here, the example relies on getting deep into the character’s thoughts. Personally, I think we should be on this level with the character a lot of the time. That level of access to the character’s thoughts and feelings draws the reader in.
Another technique is to use action (to use another FtQ example):
Telling: He stabbed the man furiously.
See how an adverb tells rather than shows?
Showing: He plunged the dagger into the man’s chest again and again and again, screaming “Die!” each time the blade stabbed into flesh.
Notice that this example doesn’t name the emotion. Can you tell what it is? Of course! Would using the word “anger” help? Probably not. In fact, it might undercut the power of the scene.
Another option is showing with the cliché, of course, but that’s hardly any better than telling. Clichés, automatic turns of phrase like “his blood boiled,” are used so often they don’t carry much meaning anymore. Even gestures can become cliché. Work harder—change it up and make it fresh instead of giving your readers something to gloss over.
Next time we’ll look at two more ways to show character emotions!
What do you think? How have you used characters’ thoughts or actions to convey their emotions?
Photo by Daniel James
Posted in Technique
Tagged character emotions, emotion, emotions, showing, showing character emotions, telling, writing emotion
14 Comments
A place for everything: showing vs. telling
Join one critique group and you’re sure to have someone point out an instance of telling in your writing with the admonishment: “SHOW DON’T TELL!”
Now, I’m going to tell you right now: that’s quite often good advice. I’m not one for slavishly adhering to rules, but when I read a book that routinely tells me about what people are thinking rather than showing me that they’re thinking it, it drives me crazy. It’s like reading about a story rather than reading the story itself.
One common place I’ve come to focus on is showing vs. telling is in character’s emotions.
Bad telling:
She felt tired. She always felt tired. Every day, they had this meeting and she just wanted to sleep.
Better showing:
Her eyelids sagged, but Marie didn’t notice that she was falling asleep until her head began to droop. She jerked upright again with a quick glance around the boardroom. No one met her eyes—many were dozing themselves. The midafternoon stockholder report was always the most difficult time of day to focus, whether she’d gone to bed at two or ten.
But it had almost always been two.
Showing has the power to bring a reader more deeply into the story—making them live the experience rather than just read about it. Vivid details and description can do that.
BUT (and there’s almost always a but) there are exceptions to this rule. Sometimes, vivid descriptions and details get in the way of the story. Sometimes, telling is the way to go. (Gasp.)
I know, it’s horrific to even read. But every once in a while, something needs to be told. Good reasons to tell: the details aren’t significant, won’t add to the setting, slow down the story or get in the way of emotions.
Bad showing:
She stood among the racks of children’s clothing, but her eyes didn’t see the blue and yellow horizontal striped miniature polo shirts, or the pink polka dotted dresses with ruffled lace bloomers hanging on rack to her right. Nor the green, blue and orange plaid button downs, the purple beaded socks, the bedazzled jeans with magenta embroidery, the baby khakis with real zippers and buttoned pockets, in every size from preemie to 4T, folded on the shelves to her left.
What was her son doing now?
See the problem? Unless you’re trying to show us your POV character has an eidetic memory (300,000 word novel, anyone?), this level of detail probably isn’t necessary. In fact, showing the scene can be so time consuming that it drags on and becomes boring—and probably worst of all, it severely undercuts the emotional impact of the next line.
Better telling:
The bright colors and happy patterns of the children’s clothing department seemed to mock her pain, as if the miniaturized shirts and shorts could read her mind to see what she’d done, and taunt her for poor choices.
What was her son doing now?
In this case, we really don’t need to “see” every detail of the children’s clothes. Now, a better way to accomplish both might be for the character to actually handle the children’s clothes, noting the details (perhaps she’s a seamstress who appreciates clothing construction and patterns?), her thoughts slipping back to her son.
My favorite instance of confusion about showing and telling was prompted by a contest judge. She(?) marked the sentence “Sighing, Margaux pulled the hairpins from her hair” with “SHOW us the sigh.” (Note, too, that this was the only initial participial phrase in the chapter.) Well, okay:
Margaux’s thoracic diaphragm contracted, expanding her thoracic cavity and creating a vacuum in her lungs. Air at atmospheric pressure rushed in to fill her lungs. Once they were at optimal capacity, and a good proportion of the oxygen content had transpired into her bloodstream, Margaux reached the full depth of her frustration with her disheveled coif. She contracted her external intercostal muscles, audibly forcing a stream of air through her nostrils, and pulled the hairpins from her hair.
Clearly, sighing isn’t something that has to be shown like that. In fact, with some actions, simply using the verb is enough to show them.
Yes, yes, you’ll be told a million times “show, don’t tell” before you’re published, but really, telling has its (very limited!) place, too.
What do you think? Is there a place for telling as well as for showing? When do you use them?
Photo credits: shh!—Ann; shout—Maciek Łempicki
