Show, don’t tell. If we’ve heard it once, we’ve heard it a thousand times—and it’s still a difficult concept to grasp.
Reading Kusamakura by Natsume Sōseki several months ago, I was caught by a scene in which the protagonist witnesses two people encountering one another on a hillside. The following version of the scene is from the 2008 Penguin Classics translation by Meredith McKinney:
This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm, clear features. This wild figure twisted harshly toward her; that elegant shape, sleekly graceful even in her everyday kimono, leaning gently forward from the waist. His misshapen brown hat and indigo-striped garment tucked to the thigh; her elegant curve of hair, combed to a gossamer glint, and the captivating glimpse of padding deep within the glowing black satin of her obi folds—all this is marvelous material for a picture.
The man puts out his hand and takes the purse, and at once the beautifully balanced tension in their mutual poses disintegrates; the woman’s figure ceases to draw him, while he in turn has broken free of that force. Painter though I am, I have never before realized just how powerfully psychological states can influence a picture’s composition.
The scene reminds me of one of my favorite movie lines ever, from My Best Friend’s Wedding. The protagonist, Jules, has just tried to convince Michael, the man she’s in love with, to cancel his wedding to another woman. The fiancée discovers them together and runs away, and Michael takes off after her. Jules pursues them in a stolen van, calling her friend George en route. George says bluntly, “Michael’s chasing Kimmy? You’re chasing Michael? Who’s chasing you?”
Both scenes illustrate a concept that is fundamental to both life and writing: the things that happen are just as powerful as our interpretations of them. In the scene from Kusamakura, the positioning of the man and woman on the hillside tells the narrator everything he needs to know about the two people’s positions in the world and their feelings toward each other. In the scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding, the fact that Michael is chasing Kimmy tells Jules who her best friend will be marrying that evening.
Portraying versus interpreting
An easy pitfall for authors is explaining the significance of a plot or character element rather than portraying the element itself. If a story’s plot and characters are too weak in themselves to keep the reader’s interest, interpreting the story will not make a difference. And if the story happens to be strong already, excessive interpretation will weaken it.
Fairy tales and fables stand the test of time because there is nothing like cold, hard, surprising “facts” to catch our attention and make us wonder what’s coming. When the jealous queen was unable to get her stepdaughter killed, she took matters into her own hands and gave the girl a poisoned apple. One woman who will stop at nothing to supplant another? Little interpretation or explanation is needed.
Your story needs good bones; don’t waste your energy or your readers’ on a story that looks pretty on the outside but is full of sawdust.
Scrutinize your story’s elements. If the events of the plot follow logically on one another, you won’t have to explain why they happen. If they are intrinsically interesting, you won’t need to add dramatic exposition to convince your readers of their significance. How about your characters—do their actions express who they are and what motivates them? You can spend less time explaining what they feel and why they do what they do.