Three words changed how I write: “Show, don’t tell.” Before joining the Hoover Library’s Write Club, I’d never heard this fundamental rule that would reshape my approach to storytelling.
When I first walked into that circle of folding chairs, clutching my manuscript like a security blanket, I had no idea how transformative the experience would be for my development as a writer. I thought I had it all figured out—after all, wasn’t writing just about pouring words onto paper? The more elaborate, the better?
One piece of feedback has stayed with me ever since: “Show, don’t tell.” At first, I was puzzled by this advice. What did that mean? My writing style involved throwing in everything but the kitchen sink. I reveled in immense descriptive detail and thought more was not just better, but the goal. Every sunset had to be “magnificent,” “breathtaking,” and every character’s emotion explicitly stated rather than demonstrated through action or dialogue.
I recall the moment the concept clicked. Instead of writing “Alicia was nervous,” I learned to show her fidgeting with the dimestore wedding ring, her voice catching mid-sentence, beads of perspiration forming across smooth blemished skin despite the cool air. The difference was night and day. Now, my readers could experience Alicia’s anxiety rather than simply being told about it.
This simply piece of advice not only transformed individual scenes, but my entire understanding of what good writing could accomplish. The art of story telling is an invitation, not a lecture. It should draw readers into experiences instead of merely informing them about events.
I like to think I’ve turned from my wicked writing ways. Although I still battle one persistent habit that threatens to derail every writing session: the urge to edit while I write.
Some old tendencies die hard—or not at all.
Putting Down the Metaphorical Red Pen
This internal editor remains my most formidable opponent. Picture this: I’m in the middle of what feels like a breakthrough scene, fingers flying across the keyboard, when suddenly that critical voice pipes up. “That sentence is clunky,” it whispers. “That word choice is terrible. Fix it now before you forget.”
My mind races faster than I can type, faster than I can think clearly. Ideas pile up like cars in a traffic jam while I’m stuck polishing a single paragraph to perfection, only to obsess over it hours later. It’s maddening. I’ll spend twenty minutes perfecting the opening sentence of a chapter, only to realize I’ve completely lost track of where the story was heading.
One thing that sharing taught me in the early years of Write Club was that first drafts are meant to be messy. They’re supposed to be imperfect, rushed, and full of placeholder phrases like “insert better description here.” The magic happens in revision, not in the initial pouring of raw creativity energy onto the page.
Yet knowing this intellectually and putting it into practice are two entirely different challenges. Even now, as I write this very sentence, I can feel the urge to go back and tinker with the previous paragraph. It’s an addiction of sorts.
The Liberation of Imperfection
Slowly, I’m learning to embrace what I call “productive messiness.” Some days, I force myself to write with my monitor brightness turned down so low I can barely see the words. Other times, I’ll set a timer and refuse to use the backspace key until it rings. These techniques sound ridiculous, but they’ve helped me push past the paralysis of perfectionism.
The most profound lesson from my writing group experience wasn’t just about showing versus telling—it was about trusting the process. Trust that the story will find its shape. Trust that awkward first drafts can and with some effort will become polished prose. Trust that sometimes the best writing emerges when we release control.
The journey from that nervous newcomer clutching her manuscript to someone who can actually finish a story has been anything but linear. There are still days when I catch myself editing the same sentence for the tenth time, days when “show, don’t tell” feels like an impossible mountain to climb.
But there are also days when the words flow like water, when scenes come alive on the page, when I can feel readers leaning in because they’re not just reading about characters—they’re experiencing the story alongside them. Those are the days that make every frustrating writing session worth it.
The red pen will always be there, waiting to interrupt the creative flow. The key is learning when to pick it up—and more importantly, when to set it down and just let the story unfold.
How has famous word ‘Show, don’t tell’ impacted your writing journey? Is it something you follow? Or dismiss as antiquated approach to writing? The Weirdo wants to know!
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