Show, Don’t Tell: The Ultimate Guide For Writers

Gary Smailes | 5 December 2025

What “Show, Don’t Tell” Really Means

Readers want a role in the story. You offer evidence. They draw conclusions. That’s the engine behind showing. Oops, strike that. Here’s the clean version. You offer evidence, readers draw conclusions. Showing feeds that loop. Telling breaks it by handing over finished answers.

Showing vs. telling in plain terms

Telling states a verdict.

• Telling: Mara was angry.
• Telling: The meeting was a disaster.
• Telling: He felt guilty.

Showing lays out proof.

• Showing: Mara set the mug down hard enough to spill coffee across her wrist. “Try again.”
• Showing: By minute ten, chairs squeaked, the agenda lay folded, and the CEO walked out with the copies.
• Showing: He kept the receipt in his pocket all afternoon, edges sweating through the fabric, and avoided eye contact with the cashier on his way out.

Notice the difference. Labels vanish. Evidence arrives. Readers do the math.

Dialogue and subtext belong in this camp too. A line like “Fine” can carry a dozen meanings. Pair that line with breath, posture, or silence, and readers hear the real message.

Think spectrum, not rule

Showing works best during turning points, confrontations, and discoveries. Summary has a job as well. Use summary to move through low-stakes hours, travel, cleanup, routine. Use a few sharp details so the page never goes bland.

Summary done well:

• “Three calls, two voicemails, zero answers. By dusk, the list of favors felt thin.”

That moves time forward without sandbagging pace. No scene needed, yet texture still exists.

Scene and summary form a slider. Pull toward scene when stakes rise. Push toward summary when momentum needs a bridge. Balance creates flow.

Narrative distance shapes the effect

Distance is how close the prose sits to a mind. Deep first or deep third lets readers feel thought in real time. Free indirect discourse blends thought into narration without tags or italics.

Distant:

• “Elena was nervous about the test.”

Deep:

• “The hallway clock clicks too loud. Two hours of sleep and a stomach full of gravel. Who writes a trick question on question one?”

Third-person, free indirect:

• “The hallway clock clicked too loud. Two hours of sleep and a stomach full of gravel. Who writes a trick question on number one, a saboteur?”

Both lines report a state. The deep versions feel shown because voice and bias ride along. Distance, not only content, changes the experience.

Purpose drives each choice

Ask a simple question before writing a beat. What job does this moment serve?

• Heighten emotion. Show through micro-actions, sharp diction, and consequence.
• Reveal character. Show preferences, habits, and blind spots under pressure.
• Land a turn. Show the moment a choice locks in, and let readers feel the cost.
• Compress time. Tell briskly so focus stays on the next meaningful moment.
• Bridge scenes. Tell enough to orient, then get out of the hallway.
• Clarify stakes. A crisp sentence can frame danger or desire with zero drag.

Example of purposeful telling:

• “Two weeks later, the bruises had faded, but the voicemail icon stayed lit.”

We skip daily life while holding onto a thread of tension. Purpose honored. Pace preserved.

Reader trust is the goal

Readers come ready to work. Give clues. Avoid spoon-feeding motives and themes. When prose leaps in with a moral or a diagnosis, trust slips.

Author commentary:

• “Rhea forgave him because love works that way.”

Reader-centered approach:

• “Rhea passed the photo back without a word. Later, she washed the lasagna pan he left in the sink and set aside a slice for him in foil.”

No lecture. Only action. Readers supply the why, which feels far better than a lecture.

Quick swaps for common tells

• Emotion labels. Trade “sad” for a throat that won’t open, a phone facedown, a canceled plan.
• Explanations after dialogue. Trade “she lied” for a beat that conflicts with the line. A smile that never reaches the eyes. A key slipped into a pocket mid-answer.
• Generality. Trade “the neighborhood was rough” for plywood over windows, a chain on a gate, a dog that grows silent when a car crawls by.

Mini scene vs. summary, side by side

Telling:

• “Jon missed his father.”

Showing in a mini scene:

• “The hardware aisle smelled like oil and cedar. Jon ran his fingers over the old blue screwdriver model, same grip, same knick near the tip. The clerk asked if he needed help. Jon shook his head and left with empty hands.”

Both land the point. The mini scene hits harder because evidence piles up and readers participate.

Action

Take one chapter and try this:

• Underline conclusions. Words like angry, selfish, smart, disaster, failure, success, guilt, love.
• Circle evidence. Physical beats, specific nouns and verbs, lines of dialogue, sensory detail.
• If a major beat has an underline without circles nearby, convert that beat into a small scene. Three to five lines. One setting clue. One body cue. One consequence.

Extra credit:

• Pick one paragraph and remove three filter words. Saw, felt, realized, noticed, seemed, thought. Replace with the perception itself. “She felt heat on her neck” becomes “Heat pressed her neck.” “He realized the door was open” becomes “The door hung open.”

Give readers proof and space. Participation follows. Trust builds. And pages turn themselves.

When to Show and When to Tell

Some moments need line by line on the page. Others need one clean sentence. Pick the right tool for the beat in front of you.

Show when stakes climb

High stakes. Complex emotion. A choice that bends the plot. Put readers in the room.

Telling:

• Nora was terrified of the audition.

Showing:

• Nora’s number sticks to her palm. The pianist rolls a scale. She mouths the first line, no sound. When her name lands, she reaches for the doorframe and misses.

Telling:

• The argument ruined dinner.

Showing:

• “You knew,” Miles says. Plates stop clinking. Steam fogs the window. She folds the napkin twice, four times, and never looks up.

Give the beat a body. Actions, dialogue, and consequence pull readers into meaning without labels.

Tell to move through low stakes

Travel. Repetition. Cleanup. Context that does not earn a scene. Use summary, and keep it vivid.

Bland:

• The next week passed and nothing happened.

Vivid summary:

• Three commutes, two late trains, one voicemail he refuses to play. By Friday, the fern by his desk has dropped a small green snowdrift.

Bland:

• They drove to Phoenix.

Vivid summary:

• Dawn on I-10, bug grit on the windshield, billboards for fireworks and beef jerky, a slow leak in the back tire that needs air in Blythe.

Summary moves the clock without losing texture. No flab. No lecture.

A simple decision filter

Before writing a scene, ask three quick questions.

• Stakes. High means show. Low means tell.
• Novelty. New information or a fresh turn means show. Familiar ground means tell.
• Tempo. Slow down to show during turning points. Speed up to tell between them.

Run a page through this filter and weak pages confess themselves. Long scenes with low stakes shrink. Thin moments expand into real drama.

Match genre expectations

Readers arrive with contracts in mind. Meet those contracts or break them on purpose with care.

• Thrillers. Evidence on the page. Action choices in real time. Summaries that bridge location and regrouping.
• Romance. Feelings on the page. Body beats and subtext in dialogue. Quick summaries for days between dates or long work shifts.
• Historical and epic fantasy. Bigger canvas. Elegant summary for marches, seasons, and political shifts. Sharp zoom-ins for clashes, betrayals, and vows.
• Mystery. Clues shown in scene. Red herrings handled with clean beats. Summary for canvassing or lab time, but key reveals land onstage.

Respect POV knowledge limits

A narrator only knows what a body in that moment knows. Do not state offstage facts as truth. Show behavior, let the character infer, and allow room for error.

Wrong move:

• “Across town, the mayor decided to bury the report,” says a first-person teen at home.

Better:

• Sirens fade somewhere west. Mom kills the radio during the press conference. “Enough.” The teen texts Jamie. No reply. The mayor smiles without teeth when the camera returns.

No cheat. Only evidence available to that lens.

Blends that earn trust

Strong passages often mix quick summary with a sharp scene beat.

• “Two months of polite messages went nowhere. On the first warm Tuesday, she rang the bell and stayed on the step until footsteps crossed the hall.”

Time moves, then the hinge moment lands on the page. Readers feel both pace and payoff.

Common misfires and quick fixes

• Long scene for a routine task. Fix with a crisp two-sentence bridge.
• One-line tell for a life-changing decision. Fix by staging a mini scene with a choice and a cost.
• Summary with no image. Fix by adding one sensory hook.
• A reveal told from outside the POV’s reach. Fix by showing signals and a guess, or shift to a narrator who has access.

Mini exercises

• Pick a high-stakes beat. Write five lines in scene. One action, one line of dialogue, one physical consequence, one sensory detail, one choice.
• Find a low-stakes page. Compress to three sentences with one concrete image per sentence.
• Take a familiar task, like morning routine, and write a twelve-word summary that still has flavor. Example: “Coffee burnt, shirt inside out, bus gone, neighbor’s dog wins breakfast again.”

Action

Label a chapter for balance.

• S for scene, on-page showing.
• B for brief summary.
• X for cut.

Make sure major beats wear an S. Trim or combine any runs of B that eat a third of the chapter. If a crucial moment hides inside a B, expand to a short scene and put skin in the game.

Choose with purpose, honor the reader’s role, and the page will carry clean momentum.

Techniques That Create Showing on the Page

Showing lives in the line. Specific words. Small moves. Clean choices. Use these tools and readers do the math without you spelling the answer.

Concrete specificity

Abstractions keep readers at arm’s length. Precise nouns and verbs pull them in. Pick the detail that matters. One sensory hook often beats three vague ones, especially sound and texture.

Telling:

• The hallway was creepy.

Specific:

• The exit sign ticks. Carpet grips at her soles. A vent rattles with a loose screw.

Telling:

• He felt tired after practice.

Specific:

• His calves tremble on the stairs. Jersey salt rubs his neck raw. The shower hisses and he leans on the tile.

Mini drill:

• Take one abstract line from your scene. Swap in one concrete noun and one precise verb. Add one non-visual cue.

Body language and micro-actions

Name the emotion and the spell breaks. Show it through the body. Escalate the beats so tension rises.

Flat:

• She was angry.

Beats:

• She sets the glass down. Rim clicks on the counter. A breath in through the nose. “Say it again.” The glass does not move this time. Her shoulders do.

Watch for repetition without change. Three sighs do not build. Three different beats do.

Dialogue subtext

The strongest line hides in what goes unsaid. Let word choice, silence, and timing carry meaning. Trust the reader.

On the nose:

• “I am upset you ignored me at the party,” she said.

Subtext:

• “Busy crowd.” He dries a glass that is already dry.
• “You were busy for two hours.”
• He lines up the cups. One. Two. Three.
• “You could have waved.”

Interruptions help.

• “So, about last night—”
• “Nothing happened,” he says, fast.

Mini drill:

• Write a four-line exchange where one person wants an apology and the other avoids it. No emotion labels. Use an object in the scene as a prop.

Free indirect discourse

Blend a character’s thought into the narration. No clunky tags. No italics parade. Give the sentence the character’s bias and lexicon.

Clunky:

• She thought, I am such an idiot. She felt embarrassed.

Free:

• The email sits in her outbox. Brilliant. Send it to the whole staff at 1 a.m. while chewing on cold pizza. She drags it to drafts and swallows the grease.

Signals:

• Diction shifts toward the character.
• Judgments sound like the character.
• Syntax tilts with mood.

Keep it clear whose head you occupy. One mind per scene unless you zoom out on purpose.

Comparisons and image systems

Use comparisons anchored to the point of view. Build a light pattern across scenes so voice and theme glue together.

Chef POV:

• He measures people in prep times. Three-minute charm. Thirty-minute patience. She walks in like a rolling boil.

Runner POV:

• Meetings come in miles. Mile one smiles. Mile two burns. He saves water for the last ten minutes.

Pick one field for the character. Return to it in small, fresh ways. No purple flourishes. Clean links between world and mind.

Mini drill:

• List three domains your character knows. Tools, sports, trades, hobbies, family sayings. Write one line of description through each lens.

Cause and effect beats

Emotion turns into choice through a sequence. Put the beats on the page in order. Readers feel the gear shift.

Pattern:

• Trigger.
• Visceral reaction.
• Thought.
• Decision.
• Action.

Example:

• The door opens on a key she does not own.
• Her mouth goes dry. Hands prickle.
• He came back. After saying he would not.
• Leave or face him. Pick.
• She steps into the hall and calls, “Marco,” voice low.

Trim where needed, but keep the hinge. Without the decision, action reads hollow.

Setting as lens

Description is never neutral. Filter place through the point of view so readers learn both world and person.

Same room, two minds:

Detective:

• The office smells of toner and old coffee. No photos on the wall. A second chair, never used, blocks the window latch.

New hire:

• Someone left a snack basket on the filing cabinet. The plant needs water. The swivel chair squeaks, but it spins smooth.

Each notice reveals values. Status. Worry. Desire. No lecture required.

Mini drill:

• Walk your character into a kitchen. Write five things they notice in order. Now give the same space to a different character and change the list.

Quick before-and-after edits

• Replace a summary with one image.
  • Before: The beach was beautiful.
  • After: Wet sand packs under her heels. Pelicans skim the gray sheet of water.
• Trade a hedge for the perception.
  • Before: He felt someone watching him.
  • After: The hairs on his forearms lift. Heads turn toward the alley mouth.
• Swap an adverb for a stronger beat.
  • Before: “I know,” he said softly.
  • After: He folds the ticket once. Twice. “I know.”

Action

Pick one scene and tune it.

• Cut ten filter words. Look for saw, felt, realized, seemed, noticed, began, started.
• Add three sensory specifics. Favor sound, touch, or smell.
• Convert two emotion labels into physical beats.

Do the pass fast. Do not fuss. You will hear the page tighten. Readers will feel closer without being told to feel close.

Common Telling Traps and How to Fix Them

Every writer slips into telling when the clock ticks and the coffee cools. No shame. Spot the usual suspects, swap them for stronger moves, and watch the page breathe.

Emotion labels

Labels fasten a name to a feeling, then kill the charge.

Telling:

• She was angry.

Show with body and consequence:

• She sets the mug down too hard. Tea climbs the rim. “Say that again.”

Telling:

• He was nervous.

Show with physiology and choice:

• His keys jangle against his thigh. He picks the wrong door twice, grins at no one, and tries the next handle.

Use sharp diction. Use action that matters. If rage never changes what a character does, readers will not feel it.

Quick drill:

• Replace one emotion label with three beats: a physical cue, a sensory flicker, a decision.

Filter verbs and hedges

Words like noticed, seemed, thought, felt, realized, and their cousins add distance. They report the perception instead of letting readers perceive.

Telling:

• She felt a draft from the window.

Closer:

• A thin chill threads through the gap in the sash.

Telling:

• He noticed the ring was gone.

Closer:

• The ring-shaped dust on the dresser shows. Bare wood in the circle.

Telling:

• I thought the joke fell flat.

Closer:

• Silence. One cough. His smile freezes like spilled wax.

Cut the filter when the sentence works without it. Keep it when you need uncertainty. “The latch looks new” lets doubt live.

Exposition dumps and “as-you-know” dialogue

A page of backstory draped over a scene slows pace and drains tension. So does dialogue where two people recite facts they both already know.

Dump:

• As you know, Captain, the reactor uses a graphite core that overheats when—

Fix:

• The warning light blinks red. The manual she stole from training slides on the floor. “Graphite,” she says. “Do not touch the dampers.” He reaches anyway.

Fold context into action, props, and conflict. Let a bill on the fridge show money trouble. Let the landlord on the voicemail grow impatient. Feed info in packets, right when the reader needs it to follow the moment.

Drill:

• Take one paragraph of pure facts. Cut it in half. Move the surviving details onto objects, obstacles, and word choice in the next scene.

Authorial interpretation

Explaining what a gesture means steals the reader’s job. Trust bias and outcome.

Telling:

• He crossed his arms, which meant he was defensive.

Fix:

• He crosses his arms. The question hangs. He stares past her shoulder at the shut door.

Telling:

• She smiled kindly at the child.

Fix:

• She studies the boy’s scraped knee and loosens her mouth. “Got you good,” she says, and tears the bandage into two thinner strips.

Let the point of view tilt the line. A suspicious narrator reads the shrug as a dodge. A romantic narrator reads the same shrug as charm. Both work if the lens is clear and the scene pays it off.

Adverb-reliant tags

He said softly. She asked loudly. Adverbs prop up weak lines. Strengthen the verb or add a beat that does the shading.

Before:

• “I know,” he said softly.

After:

• He folds the ticket once. Twice. “I know.”

Before:

• “Leave me alone,” she said angrily.

After:

• “Leave me alone.” She turns the bolt and holds it.

Adverbs earn their keep when they add precision, not volume. “She answers dryly” tells tone fast if the line itself stays neutral. Use sparingly.

Mirror and weather clichés

Staring into a mirror to list features. Opening on rain to declare gloom. Readers have seen both a thousand times.

Mirror swap:

• Instead of a bathroom mirror, use a shop window as a character dodges a security guard. The reflection snags on the scar her mother paid to fix. She looks away and bumps a stroller.

Weather swap:

• Instead of, The storm was fierce, write the street. Water climbs the curb. Wipers thump like a slow metronome. A scooter tips on its stand and skates into traffic.

Anchor description to a task with stakes. A haircut before a court date. A wet coat on a chair that stains the upholstery of a borrowed car. Detail with friction carries more weight than forecast.

Before and after quick hits

• Label to beats:
  • Before: She was relieved.
  • After: Her shoulders drop. She laughs once, short and loose, and leans on the doorframe.
• Hedge to perception:
  • Before: He realized the dog had been here.
  • After: Muddy paw prints arc toward the pantry. Kibble crunches under his shoe.
• Exposition to prop:
  • Before: The ring was his grandmother’s and worth a fortune.
  • After: He flips the ring. The inside bears a date from 1943. The jeweler stops talking when it lands in his palm.
• Adverb to action:
  • Before: “Thanks,” she said sweetly.
  • After: “Thanks.” She slides the last cookie toward his plate.

Action

Run a tight line edit on a chapter.

1. Search for these red-flag words: was, were, very, really, suddenly, just, seemed, felt, realized, noticed, began, started.
2. Pick half the hits. Replace with vivid verbs or specific detail.
3. Trim three exposition clumps to two sentences each, then replant the rest as props or obstacles.
4. Swap two emotion labels for beats that escalate.

Do it once with speed. Read aloud. You will hear the difference. The page stops telling and starts breathing.

Adapting Show vs Tell to POV, Genre, and Scene Type

Show and tell bend to viewpoint, genre, and scene needs. The mix shifts with voice and stakes. Tune it, do not follow a blanket rule.

First-person and deep third

You live inside the skull here. Thought flows into narration. Summary often feels shown because voice carries it.

Telling from outside:

• She was tired of him.

In voice:

• Tom leaves the pan in the sink again. Foam stiff as frosting. I rinse it, scrape the egg, rinse again. He whistles in the hallway.

Another pair:

Flat:

• I was scared.

In voice with free indirect:

• The hallway breathes. No, stupid. Houses do not breathe. Still, the bulb hums like a gnat inside a jar, and my fingers miss the keys.

Keep conclusions in character. Not in you, the author. A judgment should sound like the narrator’s taste. Bitter. Earnest. Petty. Choose a flavor and stay inside it.

Quick drill:

• Mark three lines where you declare motives. Rewrite as the narrator’s biased guess, or show a choice that betrays the motive.

Omniscient

The voice sits above the scene, yet still feels intimate when needed. Summary has a place here, but give the narrator a presence.

Pan out:

• By noon the town had traded chores for rumor. The mill’s whistle slept, the fountain did not. Boys rolled marbles by the church step.

Then zoom:

• Under the elm, Nora counts each nickel, lips moving. A third nickel gleams. She pockets two and buys bread with the last.

You guide the lens. Broad strokes for scope, then a quick drop into sensation for impact. Let the narrator’s diction signal wit, gravity, or weariness. Readers track the shift if the persona stays consistent.

Dialogue-heavy scenes

Let lines collide. Subtext does the heavy lift. The more you explain, the flatter it reads.

Telling tag soup:

• “I’m fine,” she said sadly. “Are you sure?” he asked, worriedly. “Yes,” she replied defensively.

Sharper, with beats:

• “I’m fine.” She rolls the sleeve down over the bruise.
• “You’re late.”
• “Missed a train.” He does not meet her eyes.

Interruptions, evasions, word choice. Those are your clues. Sprinkle small actions that matter. A glass set down too hard. A pause before a name. Readers read those moves faster than any “he said angrily.”

Mini exercise:

• Strip every adverb from one page of dialogue. Add one beat per exchange. Reread aloud.

Action sequences

Clarity first. Concrete verbs. Clean placement in space. Then rhythm. Short lines when speed rises. A short line punches on its own.

Show the turn:

• The dog snaps. He steps back, heel over curb. Horns. Heat. Asphalt moves under him. He grabs the street sign pole, metal hot enough to sting.

Use tight summary to leap ahead when nothing new happens.

Compression line:

• Two alleys and three fences later, the siren fades.

Back to on-page when stakes twist again.

Worldbuilding and research

No lectures. Let rules bite. Let design choices frustrate. Let tech throw sparks or fail at the worst time.

Dump:

• The city council banned private cars twenty years ago, which reduced pollution but increased bike theft, and street cameras were installed to track offenders.

In scene:

• Lina waits for a bus that will not stop for her section. A courier brushes past with a crate on a cargo bike. A black dome blinks red above the shelter. She tucks her fake pass deeper in her sleeve.

One crisp line of summary can set context when readers need a foothold. Keep it lean. The rest belongs in consequence. A long skirt snags on a gear. A ration stamp buys less bread in August. The lab door requires two badges, and her borrowed one fails when sweat smears the ink.

Memoir and narrative nonfiction

You owe readers two things. A lived moment. A reflective mind.

Scene:

• July sticks to my skin. The pool smells like pennies. Dad holds the stopwatch and never meets the water.

Reflection:

• For years I thought speed earned love. I kept the ribbon. I missed the point.

Move between moment and meaning with purpose. Anchor insight to an image or act. Keep reflection in the voice of the person who learned it, not a judge on a high bench.

Simple frame:

• Moment. Sensory detail. One sentence of insight. Back to the moment for the beat that lands.

Genre notes

Thrillers and romance live on on-page proof. Evidence. Touch. Timing. Expect more showing during reversals and confessions. Use summary to hop hours, to shift from stake to stake.

Historical and epic fantasy allow more graceful summary for scope. Marches. Winters. Dynastic time. Even then, seed each summary with specifics. A damp hearth. Soot on lace. A treaty signed with a peacock feather that sheds on the page.

Comedy wants precision. The right verb beats any aside. Horror thrives on sensory shifts, on wrong textures in familiar rooms. Lean on micro-beats. Let the reader do the math.

Action

Pick two spots in your next chapter.

• One scene to deepen. Mark three beats where you tell emotion or motive. Swap each for a physical cue, a thought in voice, or a choice with consequences.
• One bridge to compress. Identify travel, waiting, or setup with no fresh stakes. Condense to two or three brisk lines with one vivid detail per line.

Read the chapter again. Listen for breath. You should feel the story tighten where summary now handles glue. You should feel heat where the camera lingers.

Revision Tools, Metrics, and Exercises

Drafts sprawl. Revision sharpens. Use these simple passes to find where you told, where you showed, and where the story needs a different mix.

Scene/summary map

List each chapter on one line. Add two numbers beside it, pages or word counts for scene and for summary. Do rough percentages.

Example:

• Ch 3: 12 pages. Scene 9. Summary 3. 75/25.
• Ch 4: 10 pages. Scene 2. Summary 8. 20/80.

Scan for clumps. Three chapters in a row with 60 percent summary likely drag. A full sequence at 90 percent scene likely feels breathless. Adjust by compressing low-stakes stretches and opening space where turning points hit.

Quick step:

• Circle chapters with more than 50 percent summary. Pick one to convert a key beat into a scene.
• Star chapters with more than 80 percent scene. Pick one to add a tight bridge that resets time or context.

Highlighter pass

Print a scene or use a markup tool. Yellow for tells. Blue for shows. No debating in the moment. Trust first impressions.

Now fix the loudest offenders. Choose the top five yellow sentences in each scene and rewrite.

Telling:

• Mark was furious with the team.

Show, two beats:

• Mark closes the laptop. The room stops talking.

Telling:

• She felt hopeful about the call.

Show, in voice:

• The line rings twice. She straightens the stack of sticky notes for no reason at all.

Repeat scene by scene. Yellow should thin out. Blue should lean on concrete nouns, strong verbs, and voice.

Sensory quota

High-stakes scenes deserve more than sight. Aim for two non-visual cues, sound, smell, texture, taste, temperature.

Before:

• The hallway was dark and quiet.

After:

• The bulb hums. The carpet holds the damp from last night’s leak.

Before:

• The market was busy.

After:

• Fish brine in the heat. A cleaver clicks on wood faster than her breath.

Two details anchor readers in the body of the scene. Pick specifics that relate to the goal or mood, not random garnish.

Beat expansion drill

Take one told emotion and break it into five beats. Trigger. Visceral response. Thought in voice. Choice. Outward action.

Told:

• He was nervous about the interview.

Five beats:

1. Trigger: The receptionist says his name.
2. Visceral: His tongue sticks to his teeth.
3. Thought: Do not joke. Do not overexplain.
4. Choice: He leaves the résumé in the folder instead of fanning through it again.
5. Outward action: He stands, smooths the chair back into place, and smiles on purpose.

Keep each beat short. Write them in order on a blank line, then fold them into the scene where needed.

Reader diagnostics

Bring in two or three beta readers. Ask for precision, not praise. Give them a one-page guide.

Questions to include:

• Where did you feel lectured. Mark the margin with L.
• Where did you feel lost. Mark with a question mark.
• Where did you lean in hard. Mark with a star.
• Which character feelings landed on the page without labels. Note one line.
• Which spots dragged. Write “speed up.”
• Which jumps felt abrupt. Write “bridge.”

Compare notes. If two readers mark the same paragraph with L, you told. Rewrite with evidence or move the information into action. If they star the same exchange, study why. Steal that move for weaker pages.

Editing stack

Order matters. Do not polish the part you plan to cut.

• Developmental edit. Check placement of scenes and summaries. Move beats to align with stakes. Decide where to show and where to tell.
• Line edit. Hunt for filters, abstract nouns, soft verbs. Swap labels for physical cues and subtext. Tighten sentences.
• Copyedit. Smooth grammar, continuity, and punctuation. Maintain voice decisions from the line pass.

Time-box each layer. A weekend for the map and moves. A week for line fixes. A day for polish. Short deadlines force decisions.

Worked example

Original paragraph:

• Jenna was exhausted after the shift and she was worried about rent. The neighborhood was dangerous at night so she hurried home.

Revision path:

• Yellow tags on “exhausted,” “worried,” “dangerous.”
• Swap labels for beats and specifics.

Rewrite:

• The soda machine swallows her last dollar. She leans her forehead to the metal, cold and sticky, then laughs once. The corner store has its gate half down. A scooter rolls past with no lights. She tucks the envelope deeper in her coat and walks in the street where the lamps still reach.

Now the emotion lives in action and detail. One quick line still bridges intent, “walks in the street,” which keeps pace tight.

Action

Build a one-page Show vs Tell checklist and keep it by your keyboard. Use it before you sign off a chapter.

• Orientation at scene start, time, place, goal, stakes on the page.
• Major beats on the page, not summarized.
• Summary used for travel, time jumps, routine, and only where stakes stay low.
• Two non-visual sensory details in high-stakes scenes.
• Minimal filter words, saw, felt, realized, seemed, noticed, began, started.
• Emotion labels replaced with physical cues, sharp lines, or consequential choices.
• Dialogue free of “as-you-know” info and adverb crutches.
• POV limits respected, no outside knowledge stated as fact.
• One pass for yellow and blue, top five tells converted per scene.
• Scene to summary ratio checked per chapter, adjust clumps.

Run the list. Mark fixes. Then read aloud. Your ear will catch where you still tell, and where a small show will turn the page alive.

Frequently Asked Questions

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