As old as the hills is the distinction between narration and representation. Percy Lubbock (an authority on Henry James novels and storytelling innovations), who revived Plato’s storytelling and performance, started a new trend for fiction writers: the “show, not tell” technique.
Although Lubbock’s book The Craft of Fiction (1921) is rarely read today, the aphorism “show, don’t tell” remains unchallenged. But what was once fresh and new has in turn become a new orthodoxy, an orthodoxy that must be inspected and challenged regardless of the authority it wields and the great popularity and acceptance it has gained.
Contrary to what many writers think and practice, the abundance of dialogue and dramatized scenes does not necessarily make writing fascinating. Therefore, “show, not tell” has its limitations. Or even more than limitations, James Patrick Kelly, a popular short story writer, says: “Showing, not telling, can be dangerous politics. Long-winded writers think they should dramatize everything. But a story is not a game of charades.” ; go out there and tell readers what’s what. “
Francine Prose, in her invaluable book, Reading like a Writer (while commenting on Alice Munro’s style) says: “Finally, the passage contradicts a form of bad advice often given to young writers, namely that work It goes without saying that many great novelists combine ‘dramatic’ presentation with long sections of resounding author narration which, I suppose, is what it means to tell (25). “
That “show, don’t tell” is bad advice, I’m sure. In the first place it hinders the spontaneous production of the writer. Second, it intrudes on the writer’s freedom to make aesthetic decisions. Francine Prose goes on to say: “There are many occasions in literature when telling is much more effective than showing.” I agree. The best novels are not shown, they are told. One of the greatest novels of the 19th century, Tolstoy War and peace, is widely recounted. One Hundred Years of Solitude–maybe one of the great novels of the twentieth century is told, almost in its entirety.
Novelists are “storytellers,” not actors, declaimers, interpreters, or playwrights. Anton Chekhov once said: “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” This catchy admonition has been taken by many critics as an unshakable authority reinforcing the “show, don’t tell” craze.
But it is not difficult to see that Chekhov meant that the writer in the descriptive parts of his narrative should use sensory imagery. Writing ‘the moon is shining’ is not just lazy writing, but inartistic writing. Not that Chekhov is advocating dramatization, or visible performance, much less heated dialogue. Not at all. Chekhov advocates the use of vivid images that can paint a picture in the mind of the reader.
If drama is needed for a particular scene, writers must choose when and in what proportion; If an element, subject, or object needs to be isolated or expanded, then the writer will feel the need to focus on that particular thing. But applying the “show, don’t tell” command as if it were makeup that would enhance the characteristics of the narrative is insane.
Writer’s autonomy is jeopardized when trends, fads, and the cliché “show, don’t tell” dictate how to write.