Aliya S. King

It’s one of the first things you learn in writing:  Show Don’t Tell.

But it’s still a hard one to master.

Our dear Michael Arceneaux has graciously allowed me to use the unedited essay that became this week’s first guest blogger post to illustrate the importance of show don’t tell.

[Spoiler alert: If you haven’t read his post yet, don’t read this one until you do…]

Michael handed in a decent first draft. But it definitely needed work.

Michael is a capable writer. But there needs to be some fine tuning in his show-don’t-tell department.

Here’s how Michael’s draft began…

If you asked most people who my all-time favorite artist is, they’re likely to answer Beyonce. That’s because over the years I’ve made it seem as if I’d pour hot Popeye’s chicken grease on anyone who dared disparage her in my presence.

But if you really know me, you know that my favorite singer is Mary J. Blige.

Yes, I said singer. She can sing. Maybe there have been instances where she sounded like a dying cat or that she spent vocal sessions smoking a pack of Newport’s, but she has some nominal level of vocal ability.

Even at her worse (The Tour) I could always feel what she was going through. Whether or not she sometimes sounded like a banshee never mattered to me. Being able to empathize with a singer has always been more important in my eyes.

To me there is no contemporary album that bests My Life. I’ve been bumping it since the age of 10 – to the annoyance of those who have lived with me.

“God, you used to wear that out. Who listens to Mary J. Blige in 4th grade? And you wonder why I offered you a walker for your 25th birthday. You’ve been an old head since birth,” rants my younger brother, Marcus.

I saw the jewels there. But much of this opening had to go. The first lines did not draw me in. This is an essay on how he was influenced by Mary and My Life. Why is Beyonce in there?

But also. Michael’s not showing me anything in that opener. He’s telling telling telling. I can hear him yapping in my ear. But I can’t see anything.

He goes on and on about Mary’s voice. Again, this is not an essay about whether or not Mary can sing. I’m a hundred words in and I still don’t care about this essay.

And then, Michael hits me with this line:

To me there is no contemporary album that bests My Life. I’ve been bumping it since the age of 10 .

That’s when he pulled me in. I’m seeing a 10 year old listening to an album like My Life. Now I want to know more about this kid.

And then he hits me with the line about his little brother being annoyed. And again, I can see that. This is the stuff you want to get to. Show me something. Don’t tell me nuthin’.

Unfortunately, his brother’s perspective was written in the present tense. Instead of flashing us back, he gives us a quote from his brother in the present day.

“God, you used to wear that out. Who listens to Mary J. Blige in 4th grade? And you wonder why I offered you a walker for your 25th birthday. You’ve been an old head since birth,” rants my younger brother, Marcus.

I don’t want to hear from present-day Marcus. He’s boring. I want to hear from baby-brother Marcus who has to listen to this album on repeat. I needed Michael to set a scene for me here.

I needed to see some details. Posters on the walls? Decals on the headboard? CD or Tape? Cassette player? Headphones? Sitting at your desk? Curled up in bed? Where’s the window? What can you see out of it? How big is the room? Where’s Marcus in proximity?

Had I had more time to work with Michael, I might have drawn out even more details. But we settled on just describing what device he used to listen to the music.

Here’s another section that needed some work.

Maybe a 10-year-old child listening to an album like My Life warranted concern, but I couldn’t help it.

Those feelings of self-doubt, that longing for affection, and fighting to be happy. I got that. Even then.

Though My Life is essentially a love album, Mary sang everything with such sadness that she elicited more feelings of pity than anything else.

It’s a quality others used to pick up in me. A writer I admire once wrote this about me when discussing my blog: “Mike worries me with his ups and downs. Actually, that’s not true. Mike worries me because even his ups are tinged with a certain acidic quality.”

I got it. All too well.

But I continued to follow her career and silently encouraged her as she continued to fight for happiness.

I saw a lot of myself in her, and I her succeeding made me feel like I could, too.

Do you all notice all the telling that’s going on here? Michael is beating me over the head with facts. Stories other people have told him. Present-day quotes.

He’s teasing me like a virgin on prom night.

I was sitting in my office, sipping my coffee and reading this essay. And I wanted to scream: SO WHAT IS YOUR DEAL MICHAEL? WHY THE HELL WERE YOU LISTENING TO THIS DEPRESSING-ASS ALBUM.

He was giving a monologue. Not showing.

And he went directly from that graf to his story about meeting Mary.

Um. No.

At this point, Michael needed to lay his theme right on the line. I assumed what he was trying to say was: I’m gay. Knew it since I was a kid. Stuggled with it. Mary’s album helped. But nowhere in this essay did he say that. Or anything like it.

I needed details. When did he know? How was he affected? What were his families thoughts?

In the re-write, I got the story about the funeral he attended for his uncle when he was just six years old. And how he heard the word faggot for the first time.

That’s showing. I see that six year old, hearing that word and wondering if people would use that to describe him. Now you’re showing me how a six year old could be confused and feel vulnerable.

Next section that needed some fine-tuning:

I handed her a letter and told her I wanted to share that with her. She responded with a quick “cool” and placed the letter into her Louie Vuitton bag that probably retails for more than my life would.

Let’s stop right there. This is really important. But once again, he’s telling. I need Michael to slow down, close his eyes, look around the studio where this all takes place and write down what he sees. An essay is about painting a picture for your readers. I don’t see much there. He talks about an LV bag. But it doesn’t really hit me. This needs dialogue. Bad.

In the letter I told her that hers was the first album that I ever purchased. That even at a young age her music helped me deal with problems I couldn’t completely understand at the time. I thanked her for putting herself out there in a way that not many people would ever willingly choose to.

I encouraged her to keep moving forward and continue aiming higher because she inspires me to keep fighting to overcome all the adversity in my life.

I went on and on in the letter, but I had to get it all out.

Okay, so you know what I’m going to say about the above graf. Telling me what’s in the letter won’t work. Re-work it with italics so we see you writing it. Was it on paper? On a laptop? Where was he when he wrote it?

I listed my number at the end of the letter, but I didn’t expect to hear back from her. Even after she left everyone in the studio seemed skeptical of how polite she was.

I knew as soon as I read this graf that I wanted to take out the line about leaving his number. If you’ll notice, the fact that his number was in the letter is not in the essay at all. That’s because I knew that the reader would make a note of that. He left his number. And that would mess up our climactic ending. If you don’t know he left his number, you’re not expecting it when Mary calls him back.

It’s important to think about pacing in your writing. Slow down. Give your characters some dialogue.

Wait.

Give ’em a beat to absorb what you’re showing them.

Then go back to whatever it was you were saying.

The above four lines are my example of pacing.

It’s something that Michael needs to work on. In some places in his essay, he was speeding past all the good attractions. And in some spots, he was pulling over for way too long at a rest stop.

Now, be clear on this. Michael’s draft definitely needed work.

But writing, dear readers, is actually re-writing.

And Michael’s final edit was tight.

I don’t care what you can send me in your first draft. I care about what you’ll send me after I send you an edit with a bunch of ALL CAPS layered inside your hard work. The sign of a good writer is one who takes direction well and hands in a revision that takes all edits into consideration.

dear reader: How are you with showing and not telling. Is it something you need to work on? Is it something you’ve mastered? Did you learn anything from picking apart Michael’s essay?

I’d love to hear from you…

P.S. Do you have a question about writing? Hit me up at aliyasking@gmail.com and I’ll cover it in this column….

This entry was posted on May 15, 2009 at 1:09 pm and is filed under Writing 101. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.