Chad Schomber

Let’s talk about showing versus telling in writing, because this little piece of advice has been kicked around so much it’s starting to look like an old beer can on the side of the highway.

“Show, don’t tell.”

You’ve heard it. Every writer has. Teachers write it in red ink. Editors mutter it into coffee mugs. Writing coaches slap it on Instagram graphics with a picture of a typewriter nobody actually uses.

And the advice is good.

Mostly.

But folks often explain it like they’re reading instructions off the back of a microwave dinner. Technically correct. Spiritually dead.

So let’s pull up a chair and talk shop.

What Does “Show, Don’t Tell” Mean?

Telling gives the reader information.

Showing gives the reader an experience.

That’s the basic difference.

Telling says:

Marcus was nervous before the interview.

Showing says:

Marcus read the same sentence on the lobby poster six times. His right knee bounced beneath the chair, rattling the loose change in his pocket.

Both versions communicate nervousness. The first one hands you a label. The second lets you catch Marcus in the act.

Telling is a road sign.

Showing is getting a bug stuck in your teeth while driving down that road.

One gives you the facts. The other puts wind in the cab.

That’s why showing instead of telling can make fiction, memoir, essays, and even business writing feel more alive. Readers don’t just understand what happened. They feel like they were standing nearby when it went sideways.

Telling Isn’t Bad Writing

Now hold on before you start showing every blink, breath, and twitch.

Telling isn’t some literary felony. You’re allowed to do it.

In fact, you need to.

A story that shows everything would move like a shopping cart with one busted wheel. Loud, stubborn, and taking forever to get anywhere.

Imagine this:

She opened her eyes. She moved her left leg toward the edge of the bed. Then she moved her right leg. Her toes touched the floor. The floor was cold. She stood. She walked seven steps toward the bathroom.

Friend, we’ll both be collecting Social Security before she brushes her teeth.

Sometimes you need to say:

She got up late and rushed to work.

Boom. Done. The story keeps moving.

The trick isn’t to eliminate telling. The trick is to know when a moment deserves the good camera.

Use telling to cross the parking lot.

Use showing when somebody throws the first punch.

Showing Works Through Specific Details

A lot of writers hear “show, don’t tell” and think it means adding more description.

Not quite.

More description can be useful, but it can also turn your paragraph into an attic stuffed with broken lamps.

The goal isn’t more detail. It’s the right detail.

Suppose you write:

The house was creepy.

That tells us what to think, but it doesn’t give our imagination much meat to chew.

You could try:

The large, dark, old house was surrounded by twisted trees beneath a cloudy sky.

Better, maybe. Still smells a little like a Halloween decoration aisle.

Try this:

Every window was open, though there wasn’t enough wind to move the weeds.

Now we’ve got something.

That one detail causes a tiny disturbance in the reader’s mind. Open windows. No wind. Something feels off, but the sentence doesn’t grab us by the collar and yell, “THIS HOUSE IS CREEPY.”

Good showing trusts the reader to bring a shovel.

Use Behavior Instead of Emotional Labels

Emotional labels are useful, but they’re often too clean.

Real feelings make a mess.

Instead of telling us a character is angry, show us what anger does to that particular person.

One man shouts.

Another gets polite.

One woman slams a door.

Another folds the dish towel into a perfect square and says, “No, really. Go ahead.”

That last one? Dangerous weather.

Compare these examples:

Nina was furious with her brother.

Now look at this:

Nina scraped his untouched dinner into the trash, plate and all.

The second version carries more voltage because it reveals anger through action. It also tells us something about Nina. She isn’t just furious. She’s the kind of furious that sends good ceramic to an early grave.

That’s memorable writing.

Generic emotion is a store-bought suit. Behavior gets it tailored.

Dialogue Can Show What People Won’t Say

People rarely say exactly what they mean.

That’s one reason stiff dialogue sounds like two robots filing insurance claims.

A character might say, “I’m not jealous,” while checking an ex’s social media at 2:13 in the morning.

A father might say, “Drive safe,” when he means, “I love you, and I don’t know how to say it without feeling exposed.”

A woman might ask, “Are you hungry?” when she’s really asking, “Are we okay?”

That’s subtext. It’s where dialogue stops being wallpaper and starts carrying weight.

Here’s the telling version:

Darren missed his daughter after she left for college.

Here’s a version that shows it:

Darren kept buying the strawberry yogurt she liked. Every Sunday, he found three expired cups in the back of the fridge and threw them away.

Nobody says, “I am sad because my child has moved out.”

They don’t need to.

The yogurt does the heavy lifting.

That’s the kind of image readers remember because it sneaks in through the side door.

Strong Verbs Beat Piles of Adjectives

When writing feels weak, people often dump adjectives on it like hot sauce on bad eggs.

Very sad.

Extremely angry.

Incredibly beautiful.

Deeply worried.

Those words aren’t illegal, but they often sit there with their boots on the table while the noun does all the work.

A strong verb can carry the whole cooler.

Instead of:

He walked angrily across the room.

Try:

He stormed across the room.

Or better, depending on the character:

He crossed the room and shouldered the door open.

Instead of:

She held the letter nervously.

Try:

She worried the corner of the letter until the paper went soft.

“Worried” is doing something unexpected there. That surprise wakes the sentence up.

Good verbs don’t decorate action. They reveal it.

Showing Through Setting

Setting isn’t just where the story happens. It’s emotional evidence.

A room can tell us who lives there without giving us a biography.

Picture a kitchen with unopened mail stacked beside the sink, one clean glass drying on a towel, and a birthday card still standing on the counter six months late.

You already know things about that person.

Maybe they’re lonely. Maybe overwhelmed. Maybe hanging on to the last proof that someone remembered them.

The room becomes a witness.

Instead of writing:

Caleb had been depressed since the divorce.

You could write:

Caleb had stopped using the bedroom. He slept on the couch beneath a blanket that still smelled faintly of her shampoo.

Now the sadness has an address.

That’s what showing can do. It gives abstract emotion a physical body.

Don’t Turn Showing Into a Puppet Show

There’s a common mistake in fiction writing where every emotion gets translated into the same handful of body movements.

Her heart pounded.

His jaw tightened.

She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

He clenched his fists.

Everybody’s body starts acting like it took the same community theater class.

These reactions aren’t always wrong. They’re just worn smooth from overuse.

Look for behavior shaped by character, history, and circumstance.

A broke character might hide a parking ticket beneath a floor mat.

A grieving character might keep charging a dead person’s phone.

A nervous teenager might remove every label from a soda bottle during a first date.

A lonely bartender might leave the television on after closing because the silence feels too tall.

Those details have fingerprints.

When You Should Tell

Some moments don’t need fireworks.

Tell when you’re covering time:

Over the next three weeks, they barely spoke.

Tell when the information is less important than what comes next:

By noon, the storm had passed.

Tell when showing would create pointless drama:

He hated raisins.

You probably don’t need:

He stared at the oatmeal cookie as if it had betrayed his family.

Though, honestly, I’d keep that one.

The best writing blends showing and telling the way a good song blends verses and chorus. Too much telling, and the story feels distant. Too much showing, and every moment starts acting like it deserves an Oscar.

Writers have to choose.

Which moments need speed?

Which moments need weight?

A Simple Test for Showing Versus Telling

When you revise, circle emotional labels such as angry, sad, scared, excited, embarrassed, and lonely.

Then ask:

What could a camera see?

What could a person hear?

What object in the room might carry this feeling?

What would this specific character do that somebody else wouldn’t?

Don’t replace every label. That’ll drive you nuts.

Pick the moments where you want the reader to stop, lean closer, and feel the floorboards creak.

That’s where you show.

The Real Point of “Show, Don’t Tell”

The goal isn’t to prove you can write fancy sentences.

The goal is connection.

Readers want to participate. They want to notice the trembling hand, the untouched coffee, the second toothbrush still standing by the sink. They want to put two and two together without the writer barging in and announcing the answer through a bullhorn.

Telling says, “Trust me, this matters.”

Showing says, “Look at this.”

Then it steps aside.

That’s the craft.

Don’t stuff every paragraph with sensory detail. Don’t make every metaphor wear sequins. Choose the right evidence and let the reader feel smart enough to recognize it.

So next time you write, don’t ask whether you’ve shown everything.

Ask whether you’ve shown the right thing.

Maybe it’s the wedding ring left beside the cash register..

Maybe it’s a man ordering two beers, then remembering halfway through the bartender only needs to bring one.

That’s where the story lives. In the glass left untouched.