The Angry Writer at His Desk

It is emotion, rather than logic, that telegraphs meaning. Thus emotion is what your novel must be wired to transmit, straight from the protagonist to us. — Lisa Cron

Most beginning writers write from a partially complete mental image something like this: The writer was angry and frustrated because he couldn’t think of what to write. The sentence communicates information, but it doesn’t create an experience. Readers understand the emotion intellectually, but emotionally? Nothing. Why? Because they’ve been told what the writer feels rather than to be invited to observe for themselves. Great writing presents the challenging task of doing what may not come naturally. We must show, not tell.

Let Readers Become Detectives

Readers enjoy discovering things. Instead of announcing that a character is angry, give readers clues and allow them to reach their own conclusions. Look at the writer in the picture. His hands are raised above the desk. His fingers are spread wide. His forehead is furrowed. His eyes are squeezed shut. Crumpled pages surround him like snowdrifts. The typewriter sits in front of him, silent and uncooperative. Nowhere on the picture is there a caption saying, He’s angry. In fact, we don’t even have to tell readers the man’s occupation. Showing what he does will drop enough clues for them to figure it out. We want to give readers a moving picture for their interpretation. Many aspiring writers do just the opposite: supplying the interpretation by writing: He was angry. That’s the telling approach, which expects readers to create the picture if they’re not satisfied with just an explanation.

Real Life Is a Moving Picture

Imagine a girlfriend walking into the kitchen and slamming a cabinet door. Her footsteps are heavier than usual. She glares at you, bites her lip, and says nothing other than to heave a deep sigh. If you told your readers: She was angry, they’d have no idea what kind of anger we’re talking about. But with the previous description, we have enough of a picture that we want to know what happens next. Great pictures lead a desire to see the next picture, to add to what readers know thus far. Is her sigh directed at you? If not, what? From one shot to the next, from one scene to the next, we create an emotional journey that stirs readers hearts. But the lazy tellers would simply write: She was angry.

Observe, Don’t Explain

You want readers to see the evidence and draw their own conclusions. Whether their conclusion matches yours doesn’t matter. Different people will experience your story differently, framed with their personal experiences, which is exactly what you want to happen. This approach is crucial for all great storytelling, both for fiction and nonfiction, fantasy or absolute fact. Telling: John was nervous about the interview. Showing: John checked his watch for the fourth time in two minutes. He wiped his palms on his trousers and reread the company’s mission statement, even though he’d already memorized it. In this example, readers witness nervousness rather than merely hear about it. The same principle applies to other emotions:

• Don’t tell me someone is lonely. Show me the empty chair.
• Don’t tell me someone is afraid. Show me the trembling hand.
• Don’t tell me someone is proud. Show me the smile they try to hide.
• Don’t tell me someone is discouraged. Show me the unfinished project gathering dust in the corner.

The Secret Is Observation

Great writers are observers first. They notice details that most people overlook. A detective notices clues. A photographer notices composition. A writer notices behavior. When you study people, you begin to recognize how emotions reveal themselves physically. Anger tightens the jaw. Fear widens the eyes. Sadness slows movement. Confidence changes posture. The better you become at observing people—how their expressions, actions, and dialogue reveal their feelings, motives, and goals—you’re on the right path toward leading readers on an emotional journey with believable characters.

The Crumpled Paper Principle

One of the most revealing details in the picture isn’t the writer’s expression. It’s the paper. The desk is covered with discarded drafts. All the crumpled page tell a story. A reader instantly understands that this struggle has been going on for a while. The frustration didn’t arrive thirty seconds ago. It has been building, draft after draft, failure after failure. Specific details should communicate much more than emotional labels. Instead of saying, The writer was frustrated, show the mountain of rejected pages. The pages tell the story.

Jesus Often Showed Rather Than Told

Even Scripture frequently teaches through pictures and stories rather than abstract explanations. Jesus didn’t stop with saying, “Love your neighbor.” He told the story of the Good Samaritan. He didn’t say, “You need to forgive.” He painted the picture of a father running to embrace a prodigal son. Well-told stories allow truth to be experienced rather than merely understood.

A Challenge for Writers

This week, make it your mission to spend time observing people. Watch someone waiting in line. Watch a child playing. Watch a couple talking over coffee. Notice their expressions, posture, gestures, and habits. You can do this in person when you’re away from the house, or you can even practice this while watching a movie. With an emotional picture in mind as you interpreted it, write a paragraph describing what you saw—and do that without naming a single emotion. Force yourself to rely on observable details. The more you practice this skill, the more your writing will come alive. Readers don’t want a report. They want an experience. And experiences begin when we stop telling and start showing.

For a practical guide to storytelling, check out Storytelling at Its Best