Show or Tell

Oh writers who whisper and writers who yell,
Who scribble with “show it” and mutter “just tell”—
There’s a rule that gets tossed like a bright rubber ball:
“Show, don’t you dare tell” is the loudest cry of all.

To show is to let us step into the stew,
To smell it and taste it and simmer there too.
Not “She was quite angry,” so tidy and neat—
But plates clinking hard and words incomplete.

“She’s fine,” she says with a jaw clamped tight,
While forks tremble slightly in fluorescent light.
We see it. We feel it. We sense what it means—
Emotion revealed through behavior and scenes.

Showing pulls readers right into the chair.
It breathes the tension that thickens the air.
It slows the moment, makes heartbeats expand—
A cinematic close-up, not a summary bland.

But must we show everything? Every small sneeze?
Each breakfast and brushing of dozens of keys?
If all things were shown with no skipping ahead,
Your novel would weigh more than two tons of lead.

Sometimes you must tell us that years slipped by,
That three winters passed under a gray, weeping sky.
Sometimes you must hurry from here to the fray.
With telling, you’re able to quicken the day.

Telling is tidy, efficient, and swift,
A narrative ladder, a practical lift.
It bridges the gaps, and it tightens the thread—
Flowing where the showing would slowly tread.

“He valued his loyalty more than the truth.”
That single clean line cuts sharp, yet aloof.
No need for a chapter of scenes to explain.
Sometimes one bold sentence delivers the strain.

So balance, dear writer, like salt in a stew—
Too much is preachy. Too little goes askew.
When feelings run high and must sting—
Show us the crack in the porcelain ring.

When pace must accelerate, roll like a train—
Tell us the travel through sunshine and rain.
Ask quietly, wisely, before you decide.
Should readers linger—or swiftly glide?

Ah, subtext. Sweet subtext. That whispering art,
Where nothing is stated, yet tears at the heart.
Subtext says softly, “I trust you to see,”
And readers lean closer with thoughtful decree.

Beware of over-showing, the theatrical flare.
Not every eyebrow needs metaphor there.
If each tiny tremor is in glittering gold,
The rhythm grows weary, the texture too bold.

Variation gives music its measure and swing,
A pause, then a flourish, then tightening string.
Silence can thunder. Summary can sing.
Restraint is a powerful narrative thing.

Remember, this maxim’s no iron-clad law,
No thunderous tablet of craft you once saw.
“Show, don’t tell” isn’t a holy decree.
It’s simply a tool for how it might be.

Great writers will blend them, sometimes in a line,
A sentence that shimmers with both by design.
The question’s not, “Did I show quite enough?”
But, “Was this the right tool for this patch of stuff?”

Rewrite a dull telling as a scene bright and wide,
Then trim back a chapter to three lines of stride.
Circle each paragraph. Mark what you see:
Show here, tell there—respecting rhythm’s decree.

For showing builds depth and immersion and heat,
And telling keeps pages from dragging their feet.
Subtext adds layers where feelings can swell.
The trio together makes stories cast their spell.

When readers are moved but don’t quite know why,
When tears simply gather without you saying, “Cry,”
When hearts feel the weight without being told how—
You’ve mastered the balance. Take a storyteller’s bow.