I’m a writer, I remind myself 

Over and over–I’m a writer, I’m a writer; 

And I know the first rule: show don’t tell. 

But what do you do when they correct 

the voice you’ve owned, every day, 

All your life, telling you it’s wrong?

Show don’t tell R. Flowers Rivera 

If you’ve ever attended a creative writing class at any level, I would be shocked if you had not heard this pearl of wisdom, but if you haven’t, let me explain. Rather than writing, he felt angry, it is thought to be much more narratively satisfying to write, something in him tensed as though anticipating a fight. Write the two rarely slept in the same bed, don’t tell, it was an unhappy marriage. The ground lurched up to meet him, he didn’tfall over. 

Like all popular pieces of writing advice, it appeals to the crowd by being quotable–naturally, writers appreciate a good turn of phrase. When someone scribbles on your workshop piece maybe show don’t tell? there is the implication that the reader shouldn’t be spoon-fed the emotion or experience you attempting to convey: good literary work doesn’t have an agenda. However, a look at the origins of this theory suggests it is not as politically unbiased as you might believe. 

Origins

I’ve taken it as advice and I’ve given it, but what I didn’t know until recently was that the origin of this thought is attributed to Anton Chekov, a playwright. ‘Don’t tell me the moon is shining,’ goes the translated quote, ‘Show me the glint of light on broken glass’. Disputed, but another possible originator that Wikipedia suggests is Mark Swan, also a playwright. 

Suppose one out of the two is correct–isn’t it interesting that a key component to literary writing originated in a visual medium? In a book, whether it’s shown or it’s told, it’s still just words on a page. In the theatre, it could take the form of a fun prop, or possibly even an actor doing a stunt fall, both of which undeniably hits different than a character crying, ‘Alas! He hath fainted!’

In his book, Workshops of Empire, Eric Stenner suggests that the migration of Show, don’t Tell from a theatrical context to a literary one wasn’t a natural osmosis, but is reflective of a purposeful shift to depoliticise emerging American writers under the looming threat of Communism. In the Cold War climate, Stenner suggests, Show, don’t Tell was a way to guide writing programs away from radical writing; along with ‘dogma’ and ‘doctrines’, ‘systematic social critiques’ were out. What was left was the ‘individual’, the personal–this, after all, is universal, isn’t it? 

In the context of 1950s American academia, it isn’t difficult to conclude what kind of individual became synonymous with good literature and, to quote Kimmy Smidt, your experiences are not universal. In her article ‘Let Me Tell You’, Science Fiction author Cecilia Tan puts across the compelling argument that Show, don’t tell remains exclusionary, as it relies on a ‘shared pool of knowledge and cultural assumptions’ for what is being shown to be understood–the necessity for a certain amount of ‘telling’ in Science Fiction and Fantasy novels succinctly proves her point.

How do you hide the exasperation 

When no effort is made to mask 

Blatant biases? It should be written this way. 

Why shield contempt from theory-

Dense academics who note in red I understand but

Why is the voice strident and shrill, angry?

Show don’t Tell, R. Flowers Rivera 

The benefits of Show, don’t tell

Things can grow apart from their original purpose, and as Show, don’t Tell is intwined with character it may be a way to reflect the experiences of any number of people. As well as discouraging Communist sympathisers in Cold War America, this technique forces the author to utilise characterisation, context, metaphor, which is probably a reason it is encouraged so much when studying writing in a formal educational context. Chuck Palahnuik suggests leaving your characters free of thinking, desiring, dreaming or wondering as a way to force yourself to get imaginative as a writer. 

‘Instead of characters knowing anything, you must now present the details that allow the reader to know them. Instead of a character wantingsomething, you must now describe the thing so that the reader wants it,’ the author of Fight Club says. 

Instead of the character telling the reader who they are and what they believe, it must be deduced through their actions. It could be argued that this is a more realistic depiction of people–but is it? It seems to me that, albeit often through an emoji in a Twitter bio, our political beliefs are often the first thing we share with new people. 

Show, don’t tell is not only to do linguistic choices, but what some would call the story underneath the story. Beyond the plot, what is the message? Show the reader the puzzle pieces, don’t tell them what the picture looks like, or run the risk of your story becoming moralistic parable. And after all, isn’t that one of the most thrilling things about reading–when you feel like you’ve created the story along with the writer and that you really truly get it?

Lest I remind you that I did a Degree in English Literature–I know the author is dead and all that, and I’m not saying that there’s one way to correctly ‘get’ a story. But sometimes…sometimes you see people on Facebook comment sections whose key take-away from Squid Game is ‘underneath it all, people are evil and love killing each other’. 

Are they wrong? Workers participating in the recent South Korean General Strike wearing costumes from the show would probably say they are. I would argue that Hwang Dong-hyuk is commenting on the dehumanisation inherent in existing under capitalism, rather than offering a conclusive opinion on human nature. But does he tell us this? No, he shows us, because telling us that the games are a metaphor for capitalism would probably be considered crass, never mind suggesting to the viewer that they ought to join their local Workers Union or go on strike. 

Another disputed example is Palahnuik’s novel Fight Club: reception divided between those who see it as a self-help book and those who see it’s ironic detachment from its own narrator as a burning criticism of toxic masculinity. Which one did Palahnuik intend? I don’t know–Palahnuik didn’t tell us.

Have Fight Club and Squid Game suffered from this divisiveness? After all, it’s interesting for a piece of art to generate several conflicting ideas. More than interesting, it can be clickbaitingly lucrative. I can’t help but reminded of the universal appeal the right amount of queerbaiting can achieve–just enough to attract the pink pound, not enough to alienate conservative viewers. No, they haven’t suffered, not in terms of pop culture reach and bank. But is that what art is for? 

 Or how do you show what they’ve seen 

Every day, all their lives, but still ignore?

Who made this rule? Not me, not mine. 

Just once I want to show and tell, 

So I can be sure they’ve seen and heard

But I just didn’t give a damn.

Show don’t Tell, R. Flowers Rivera 

‘My feeling is that “show, don’t tell” can be done well or badly, but it’s triumph is that many writers and readers can’t see an aesthetic outside of it,’ Pulitzer-Prize winning author Viet Thanh Nguyen says. ‘It’s also an aesthetic that is prone to being apolitical, and which actively depoliticizes, because it discourages the possibility of saying explicitly political things.’

First of all, I’ve settled on aesthetic, rather than theory or thought, thank you Nguyen. Secondly, an aesthetic that makes it easy for a piece of art which is too clear in its political messaging to be regarded as intellectually inferior is dangerous and, as Nguyen argues, Show, don’t Tell has the English-speaking literary world in a chokehold. 

Some might argue that fiction is purely a source of entertainment and we don’t need writers to commentate on things of a socio-political nature. But Court Jester or not, writers are people who exist within the real world. For those who are victims to systems of oppression, writing can operate as one of the few means available to give testimony to lived experience: it’s no coincidence that there is a proud living history of writers whose work has been an act of protest. 

Perhaps the next argument would be that we might have different expectation of James Baldwin than, say, Stephen King or Kevin Kwan. It’s been a busy week and I want to read a beach book in peace without being confronted with the author’s political opinion, you might exclaim. Well, I hope you relish it, because you’re not escaping mine–no piece of writing, whether it be fantasy or fiction or erotica, is disconnected from politics. Subtext is not getting us far enough; maybe it’s time to start shouting. 

Written in conversation with River Ellen MacAskill and Adrian s  

Born Valentine’s Day in Belfast, SUKI HOLLYWOOD is a writer of prose and poetry. Alongside her debut pamphlet, This Suit, her work has been featured in clav mag, Gutter and The Selkie. She has contributed editorially to From Glasgow to Saturn, Knight Errant Pressand OrangeApple Press, and writes a regular pop culture newsletter The Hollywood Reporter. She is currently working on her debut novel. Find her at sukihollywood.com.