Is "Show and Tell" Always Good Writing Advice?

Two smart teenagers (albeit fictional) disagree

iStock: credit Strizh

Readers: Imagine you have a hammer in front of you and you are asked to say something about it. What would you say?

This was the question that my favorite (fictional) teenagers debate. Whether we’re talking about writing or conversation skills, how we engage the other person is important, and everyone has their own style.

If you are interested in hearing more from Alfred and Hannah, feel free to subscribe to Finding the Sunny Side: Alfred and Hannah’s Newsletter Sunny Side

---

The Case of the Hammer

It’s not often that Hannah and I get into an argument. Most often, it’s a discussion.

But yesterday afternoon, it was more.

I had written a story that I thought we could use “as an idea”—those were my exact words—for a possible 12th-grade play. It would be our last play together, and I had made Hannah a deal. I would help her produce a play again, and she would learn the game of Bridge and become my partner. That way, we could play with my mom and Coach as I worked to become more used to “them.”

So, I wrote a story about a boy who was very smart and solved a lot of math problems. He also helped others who, for some reason, couldn’t see math the way he could. They were good at remembering people’s names—something the smart boy struggled with.

Sound familiar?

Then some friendships started to happen—over time that is. Then the boy became happier, but sometimes he went on “sensory overload” (Coach helped me see this and gave me the term) and needed one very large timeout. This would be the opening scene to how we change and grow over time, and we were to understand growth is not always easy.

If you know anything about me, you will recognize that it is a story about me. Hannah knew that.

Still, Hannah wasn’t happy. Why?

“It’s all tell, and no show.”

Okay, these words made no sense. Hannah went on,

“Writers are supposed to help their readers by making big moments pop?”

I interrupted.

“Hannah, you know that I’m spectrumy, and so ‘pop’ means nothing to me, or if I take it literally, it scares me. It only doesn’t scare me because I know that words are not bombs or things that explode.”

Hannah laughed and said, “Imagine you’ve got a hammer. What would you tell me about it?”

Easy.

“I’d describe the size, the head and the handle, what I thought it was made of, and maybe how it’s different than other hammers. Maybe what I’d use it for.”

Hannah smiled and then said somewhat loudly,

“And that would be the problem!”

Now I was facing my second moment of confusion, the first one being ‘pop.’ What did I say wrong? I wondered.

Hannah continued,

“I would describe the things I used the hammer for and how it made a difference in my life. I’d describe the photo in my room that hangs on a nail on the wall, made possible by the hammer. The photo has meaning. It was Ben and me in Terre Haute visiting our dad, and we learned a lot that summer.”

“But Hannah,” I interrupted, “It tells you nothing about the hammer.”

She corrected me (so she thought). “Yes, it does. It tells you the most important part of the hammer. It tells you what it enabled me to do. I can now remember that summer with more specificity. To use your mom’s favorite phrase, it was my coming-of-age summer.”

I let it go that she used a fancy word— “specificity”— because that is how Hannah is built. Kinda like me and numbers. We each have our own things where we excel.

---

I mostly saw Hannah’s point because how she sees and explains the world is different from how I do. I find the details of the hammer’s construction most interesting. Hannah prefers to tell a story, made possible by a hammer. I consider her story “the frosting” on the top of a good cupcake, but let’s start with the cupcake itself.

At least, that is what I told Hannah.

She heard me. She let out a big sigh, and then she said the following:

“Alfred, there are so many things I want to say here. I’ll begin by giving you credit for the analogy of a cupcake. That is not how you usually think, and it probably took you out of your comfort zone.”

She was definitely right on that.

“I’ll continue with, I definitely get your point. There is a reason that I am a better writer and you are a better math student.”

I was not actually willing to concede that point.

“Hannah, you don’t actually know that you are a better writer. You have been doing it longer. You and I have no idea what kind of writer I will end up being.”

Hannah smiled and was quiet for a moment. This is a rare event for Hannah.

Then I heard this.

“Fair enough, and I am super happy you want to continue writing.”

I actually hadn’t said that, but I let her continue.

“I think there are all kinds of writers, and I have been thinking too narrowly. You are right that some people will lead with tell, and less show, and it might be the right for that person and what they are telling.”

Now I had a big smile. “Does this mean I win this one argument?” I asked.

“Alfred, it’s not an argument and it’s not a competition. We are turning an idea on its head, and we both win because we’ve expanded how we see things.”

My last word was this:

“Hannah, you know I am literal, so turning an idea on its head means almost nothing to me, but the rest of what you said was okay.”

Hannah held out her arms for a hug. I hate hugging, but sometimes I give hugs when I know the people I love really need one. She apparently did.

I closed my eyes, we hugged for 5 seconds (I always count), and then I said, “We’re good.”

Because we were.