writing commandments

A critique of "Nah. Sometimes You Gotta Just Tell the Reader"

Dr. Stacy Patton’s work on corporal punishment has been integral in recalibrating my biases towards Black children. My respect for her work in that arena is one of the reasons why being shown her piece entitled, “Show, Don’t Tell.” Nah. Sometimes You Just Gotta Tell the Reader proved to be solemn read.

“Show, Don’t Tell." Nah. Sometimes You Just Gotta Tell the Reader

There’s a growing tendency to accuse writing of being AI-prompted when we disagree with it. Perhaps, this doesn’t account for the fact that the recent adoption (and popularity) of AI-writing is a genetic consequence of our tastebuds being dulled long before CHAT-GPT hit the streets. I prefer to only acknowledge AI usage when its self-reported so, in the spirit of good faith, I don’t wish to address the allegations of Dr. Patton using AI in her writing, nor am I particularly concerned with investigative sleuthing. I am, however, interested in critically analysing the contents of her piece from a writer’s standpoint—to provide counters and giving my own advice on writing advice where necessary.

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The most important thing to note about this essay is that I agree with Dr. Patton’s premise.

Literary rules like Show, Don’t Tell or Don’t Use Adverbs are like any creative rules; they are more akin to guidelines that you should use your own best judgement of when to colour outside of.

Briefly straying from the practise of fiction, (and I’m assuming Dr. Patton is referring to fiction, she never really states it) I want to talk about cinema.

Exposition is a literary term that refers to the background information the audience needs to know for the world of your story to make sense. (Another definition of exposition is the technique of providing this kind of information in a story or film.) Exposition includes anything from character introductions to set details and dialogue, and is most common at the beginning of the story.

There are types of film exposition I really dislike. Films that begin with a voiceless narrator blandly giving a historical rundown of the world-building. Sentences materialising as text on screen to explain events that happened before. These are stale executions, lacking cinematic dynamism that lose my interest as a viewer. I like baby medicine exposition—give it to me in a way where I don’t realise I’ve eaten it.¹

Yet, there are exceptions where overt exposition has been done well.

The Star Wars opening credits are a quintessential example of text exposition. Majestic fanfare bursts onto the screen with a striking title card. Text appears from below—vast and imposing—only to float upwards and fade gently into the yawning abyss of the universe behind. The perfect way to set the scene for a film about Space Wizards.

An example I loved recently was Superman (2025). The exposition was presented as cascading factors of 3:

3 CENTURIES AGO, the first super-powered beings, known as METAHUMANS, appeared on Earth, ushering in a new era of GODS AND MONSTERS.

3 DECADES AGO, an extraterrestrial baby was sent in a spacecraft to Earth, and adopted by Kansas farmers.

3 YEARS AGO, the baby, now grown, announced himself as SUPERMAN, the most powerful metahuman of all.

3 WEEKS AGO, Superman stopped the country of BORAVIA from invading JARHANPUR, sparking controversy around the world

3 HOURS AGO, a metahuman called the HAMMER OF BORAVIA attacked Superman in the city of METROPOLIS.

3 MINUTES AGO, Superman lost a battle for the first time.

Superman crashes into the ice. Absolute Cinema.

This is all to say: when it comes to art, the highest truth of all should boil down to one simple, cosmic question—how well did I communicate the experience I wanted to communicate?

Every choice you make should be in service of that question. As a writer, these rules that are actually guidelines) are there to ensure that your work isn’t boring, clunky or amateurish.

Writing advice #1

Guidelines are only restrictive if you see them that way. They are mostly there to help you write better. If you want to break them, break them well, break them interestingly, break them with purpose.

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Readers are not emotional forensic analysts. They don’t need a diorama to figure out someone’s sad. Trust your reader to get it. They're grown. They’ve been sad before. They don’t need a poetic autopsy of misery. Stop treating your audience like they’re too delicate or too clueless to handle a clear statement. Respect them enough to be direct when the moment calls for it. Because ain’t nobody giving you a Pulitzer for overwriting every feeling. — Dr. Stacey Patton

The act of “showing” requires much more trust in the reader to “get it” than simply announcing how a character is feeling.

“Trust your reader to get it when you tell them directly that someone is sad” is a bizarre line of reasoning, made even more bizarre by the suggestion that writer’s typically choose to “show” because they believe the audience is “too delicate” and “too clueless” to handle a clear statement.

“Show, don’t tell” is a worshipped commandment because it is the most simple advice to help you immerse your reader in the world you’ve built. It encourages vividness over declaration so the reader can inhabit the full spectrum of a character’s emotions, rather than just know that they’re there. “Showing” is the colour and texture of the hallucinatory experience that is reading. Reducing it to a matter of clarity misses its entire point.

Sometimes you need to just TELL them. He was sad. He was furious. She was in love. I’m bored writing this scene so let’s skip ahead. — Dr. Stacy Patton

In one breath, Dr. Patton says that being direct when the moment calls for it is a matter of respecting the reader. In another breath, she claims being bored of writing a scene is a valid reason why a writer shouldn’t explore a character’s inner world.

Imagine you were reading a novel about Lola—a woman who is falling out of love with her husband. In an effort to rekindle the dying ashes of their marriage, they visit a high-intensity escape room. They have fond memories of solving puzzles together. But between the stress of the game and their general disharmony, the couple begin arguing. Bad. Soon, they’re eviscerating each other with the intimate knowledge they’ve acquired from being lovers for so long. In the peak of both their tensions the husband says, “And that’s why I cheated on you with Tabitha!”

Would you feel respected as a reader if the next words were: This made Lola sad?

How would you feel if you found an interview and the author said they wrapped up the scene that way because they were “bored” writing it and wanted to skip ahead?

If a professional from any other line of work was handing out advice in their craft and part of that advice was to not do due diligence its boring, we would rightfully call out their apathy and question their commitment to their craft.

Writing advice #2

Advice #1 is break the guidelines well. Advice #2 is learn when to break them.

Where Dr. Patton and I agree is that writers should respect readers enough, "to be direct when the moment calls for it.”

The best art—whether dramatic of comedic—relies on timing. Interrogate the momentum of your writing. Think about when this moment requires that action on a line level and in the grander architecture of your writing.

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The final thing I’ll point out is that Dr. Patton betrays the premise of her own piece constantly.

Her main criticisms against “showing” are:

1. People won’t understand what you mean.

2. It’s not fun/boring to write.

3. It takes space and slows pacing.

She never identifies why “showing” is such a highly regarded commandment. Nor does she care to acknowledge that the main purpose of “show, don’t tell” is to make writing more interesting and dynamic. She spends much of her piece belittling the practise of “showing” while using “showing” to illustrate her point.

If she actually practised her own premise, her piece would look more like this:

“Showing” takes space. It slows pacing. You ever go online and want to get a recipe for sweet potato nut muffins and you find one of them recipe blogs that make you scroll through 20 paragraphs about Grandma used to do such and such before you actually get to the ingredients? It’s annoying AF.

Sometimes you need to just TELL them. He was sad. He was furious. She was in love. I’m bored writing this scene so let’s skip ahead. Boom. Done.

You don’t need to write a two-page cinematic scene describing the gray sky brooding, his trembling lip, the single tear snaking down his flushed cheek, and the wind moaning like a banshee.

Readers are not emotional forensic analysts. They don’t need a diorama to figure out someone’s sad. Trust your reader to get it. They're grown. They’ve been sad before. They don’t need a poetic autopsy of misery.

All the similes and anecdotes Dr. Patton uses to poke fun at “showing” are exhibitions of why showing is important.

But they’ve been overwritten for dramatic effect to display their redundancy. The reader could easily mistake this for a shortcoming of “showing” when it is mostly evidence of how unsuccessful the imagery is. Tears don’t snake. Neither the wind nor banshees are known to “moan”.

If I were to counter Dr. Patton’s three main aversions:

1. People won’t understand what you mean.

   Making people understand what you’re conveying is the lifelong struggle of writing fiction. It is part of the artistry of writing. If readers don’t understand what you’re showing them, saying I’m just going to tell them feels like surrender. Instead, you should be open and curious of your cosmic question: how well do I communicate the experience I want to communicate?

2. It’s not fun/boring to write.

   To write is to birth an ecosystem. There are some parts of the ecosystem we find gross. They’re still necessary. If a scene is boring you to write—I’d advise you to skip ahead and the write the part you’re excited about. But in service of a greater whole—you’ll need to take care of it sometime. You can’t just kill off the bugs and expect no consequences.

3. It takes space and slows pacing.

   There are ways to make “showing” just as concise as “telling” — often with more interesting results.

SHOW: His lower lip trembled as he stared at the floor, blinking away tears that clung to his lashes.

TELL: He was sad.

Writing advice #3

Advice #1 is break the guidelines well.
Advice #2 is learn when to break them.
Advice #3 is know why you’re breaking them.

YOU are the writer. YOU are in charge. YOU are the omnipotent narrator-god of your world. Use SHOW when you want art. Use TELL when you want clarity. Use both when you want mastery. Because at the end of the day, your job isn’t to obey rules. Your job is to get under the skin and make readers feel something. So go on now. Break the rules. Abuse them. Rewrite them. And when some dusty-ass gatekeeper tries to lecture you about “proper craft,” I want you to lean back. Sip your drink. Let the ice clink. Then say real slow: “Biiiih… I am the craft.”— Dr. Stacy Patton

You are in charge. Your job is to make readers feel something and you have many ways of achieving it. To treat “show, don’t tell” like an oppressive restriction is like treating road markings like prison bars. They are there to help guide you on the right path.

“Show, don’t tell” helps your writing feel more lived in.

Dr. Patton’s piece does both writers and readers a disservice. “Showing” when you want art and “telling” when you want clarity forms an arbitrary binary. You can “tell” in long-winded ways and you can “show” with brevity. None is inherently better than the other—it is about execution. Sometimes, if you make the fanfare vast enough and the visual striking enough—you can get away with putting a fat paragraph of text on a film screen like Star Wars.

There is a strange whiff of anti-intellectualism to the idea that “telling” your reader exactly how your character is feeling is an act of trust when its the act of “showing” that truly requires a writer trust the capacity of their audience.

Whether you choose to “show”, “tell”, use an adverb or avoid a cliché, my last piece of advice is: interrogate yourself. Why do you want to break the rules? Why are you choosing to adhere to them? Are you doing it out of boredom or comfort? Are you breaking them just to be rebellious? Are you sticking to them because they’re easy? Are you doing it just because you can or does it serve a higher purpose for the writing?

How integral is this decision in making you answer the cosmic question more confidently?

1. Example: James Gunn’s Suicide Squad (2021). Amanda Waller introduces Task Force X in a military briefing to Bloodsport, establishing him as the lead protagonist while providing him the information he needs to hear at the same time we need to hear it as viewers.