On this month's Special Page:
Best-selling "vampire" author Alistair Cross explains the difference between "telling" and "showing" a story!
Alistair Cross’ debut novel, The Crimson Corset, a vampiric tale of terror and seduction, was an immediate bestseller earning praise from veteran vampire-lit author, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, and New York Times bestseller, Jay Bonansinga, author of The Walking Dead series. In 2012, Alistair joined forces with international bestseller, Tamara Thorne, and as Thorne & Cross, they write – among other things – the successful Gothic series, The Ravencrest Saga. Their debut collaboration, The Cliffhouse Haunting, was a bestseller. They are currently at work on their next solo novels and a new collaborative project.
In 2014, Alistair and Tamara began the radio show, Thorne & Cross: Haunted Nights LIVE!, which has featured such guests as Anne Rice of The Vampire Chronicles, Charlaine Harris of the Southern Vampire Mysteries and basis of the HBO series True Blood, Jeff Lindsay, author of the Dexter novels, Jay Bonansinga of The Walking Dead series, Laurell K. Hamilton of the Anita Blake novels, Peter Atkins, screenwriter of HELLRAISER 2, 3, and 4, worldwide bestseller V.C. Andrews, and New York Times best sellers Preston & Child, Christopher Rice, and Christopher Moore.
Find him HERE
SHOW, DON’T TELL
If you’re a journalist reporting the news, your job is to tell, not show. But if you’re a fiction writer telling a story, it’s the opposite: You need to show the reader what’s going on, not just report the facts. You’re after the reader’s imagination and emotions.
To take your reader into the world you’re creating, you must make it real. You do this by adding rich detail and feeling -- by adding atmosphere to that basic reporting. A news journalist is concerned with who, what, when, where, how and why, and reports these facts without editorial comment. A fiction writer is concerned with making those basics interesting and relatable. They draw them out and add sensory experiences -- movement, sights, sounds, smells, and sometimes touch and taste -- to the basics. What you add depends on what you want to convey. You also show the character, not just the action or the place. You show their thoughts, their feelings, and give the reader hints at their nature. These hints may be truthful or devious or any shade of in between.
What this all adds up to is emotional impact. You want to draw your readers in, make them curious, make them feel, make them care.
The opening of a story written without feelings -- just the journalistic who, what, where, why, how, and when, might go like this:
The man entered his house and called the police because he saw a blood-stained knife on the kitchen floor and footprints going into a closet.
Now, here’s one of many ways it might be written as fiction:
Leo Penrose yawned as he shuffled up the walk, crunching through the carpet of fresh leaves the gardener had promised to clear. Useless bastard. He shoved the thought away and keyed open the door. He’d worry about it later. First, a cold beer.
Inside the split-level, it was cool and dark as he headed for the kitchen.
Halfway down the hall, a sharp tang hit him -- iron, wet, wrong. Leo stopped cold. Something was dripping. A slow, patient sound.
“The faucet,” he muttered, flipping on the light.
Blood. It flooded his senses. Red. So much red. A bloody butcher knife lay in the crimson expanse, gleaming silver against the stark white tiles. Wet, red streaks and scarlet footprints disappeared behind the pantry door.
His heart clenched. His fingers closed around his phone. Call the cops? Open the door? Run?
Behind him, someone chuckled.
Let’s look at the story.
First, his name is Leo Penrose. The name sounds successful to most people. Not wimpy. This is emphasized by the fact that he’s irritated that the gardeners haven’t shown up. He has a nice house he takes good care of, and when he hears dripping, his first thought is the faucet is leaking. He’s giving off the image of a moderately successful man, likely a business man. He seems confident in his world.
He’s clean and neat -- his house is sleek and he’s chosen a white kitchen floor. He’s proud of his residence. He likely enjoys an average, uneventful life. When he smells blood and sees the bloody knife and the footprints disappearing into the pantry, he is shaken. He might be middle-management somewhere; it’s obvious he’s no off-duty cop. Leo is actually a pretty average guy. He might be you or me. That makes him relatable.
In this situation -- seeing blood and a knife, then hearing a disturbing chuckle -- how would you react? Likely, you’d be a jumble of impulses, just like Leo. Would you call the cops while standing there? Would you turn around and go outside first? Would you open the pantry or search the house? No matter what, you can identify with Leo’s quandary.
Because this story opening is meant to intrigue the reader, even if he could have, it’s unlikely Leo would’ve turned around and left to call the police. So what about the cough? Before hearing it, he might’ve foolishly searched the house, but now, whatever his options were, they’re about to change. Is the chuckle an intentional tell on the part of the stranger lurking behind him? Is Leo about to be jumped? Is he afraid of being killed? And who’s in the pantry?
What should Leo do? What can he do? As the writer, you’re the boss. You need to make his life and his story as compelling as you can.
Rich openings are vital, and the above is an example of an opening to a story that will lure your reader with an interesting character who is immediately encountering unexpected sights, sounds, and smells that are out of his comfort zone. Leo may be a good guy or a bad guy. We don’t know at this point. Good guys and bad guys both care about their homes and lawns. Both can be frightened. Show the reader what Leo is by pursuing the story. Show the reader what happens, don’t just tell him.
As an exercise, try taking the Leo Penrose paragraph and running with it.
Now, let’s explore a couple more examples of immersive writing that show rather than tell. First, we’ll look at an excerpt from Exorcism, the third novel in the Thorne & Cross Ravencrest Saga series.
Excerpt:
“Within the poolhouse, a party was in progress. Grant could hear the jazz, the laughter and shrieks; he could smell the perfume, the tobacco, and booze. And behind it all, the scent of ocean brine -- he very nearly tasted it. As for the pool itself -- the water splashed and swayed with invisible bodies. The diving board thunked as a phantom diver took flight -- the board didn’t move -- but in an instant, the water beneath it exploded as an unseen body hit.
Something lurked in the center of the pool, something massive, silken, pale. It slithered toward the diver, and Grant caught glimpses of shining silvery-whiteness as it glided. It bunched and coiled around the unseen swimmer, and then an ear-bleeding scream -- that of a man -- rent the air. The water splashed and roiled madly, and then, abruptly, stopped.”
Someone applauded. Grant followed the echoing claps and, directly across the pool, saw a tall man with brilliantined hair, a pencil mustache, and eyes so wide that even from here, he could see the white rimming the dark irises. He wore a perfect tuxedo and a snake’s smile as he stared back at Grant.”
How does this excerpt show instead of tell?
First, it immerses the reader in Grant’s experiences:
- Sounds: “jazz, the laughter and shrieks,” “the diving board thunked”
- Smell and taste: “perfume, tobacco, and booze,” “the scent of ocean brine -- he very nearly tasted it.”
- Touch/motion/sensation: “water splashed and swayed with invisible bodies.”
These things make the scene visceral. Readers feel like they’re standing beside Grant rather than being told what’s happening.
Second, it uses action:
“Something lurked… massive, silken, pale… slithered… bunched and coiled.”
“An ear-bleeding scream… rent the air.”
Also,note that each verb is dynamic (“lurking,” “slithered,” “coiled”) -- readers can picture the attack as it unfolds.
Third, the imagery is rich. The scene’s power comes from small, specific images including:
“The diving board thunked as a phantom diver took flight -- the board didn’t move.”
“Glimpses of shining silvery-whiteness.”
“Snake’s smile.”
These details give physical evidence of the supernatural without spelling it out.
Fourth, there’s characterization through description. The tuxedoed man isn’t introduced as “mysterious” or “menacing” -- instead, menace is implied by his physical traits:
“Eyes so wide that even from here, he could see the white rimming the dark irises.”
“Brilliantined hair, a pencil mustache, a perfect tuxedo, and a snake’s smile.”
We see him, and his strangeness tells us how dangerous or uncanny he might be.
In short, instead of labeling the scene (“a haunted party, a scary monster, a strange man”), the paragraphs build the experience piece by piece with sensory detail, dynamic verbs, and concrete images. That’s what makes “showing” more vivid than “telling.”
Here’s what “telling” the scene would look like:
There was a ghostly party happening in the poolhouse. Grant knew it because he could hear music, laughter, and voices, and he noticed smells like alcohol and smoke.The pool was haunted by invisible swimmers. Something strange attacked one of them, and a man screamed.Then everything went quiet. Afterward, Grant noticed a mysterious man in a tuxedo staring at him.
Why it’s weak:
- It labels (“ghostly party,” “haunted by invisible swimmers,” “something strange”) instead of showing what Grant hears, smells, and sees.
- It skips sensory immersion (no brine taste, no silvery coils).
- The suspenseful rhythm of short, sharp images is lost: (phantom diver, splash, scream, applause) is gone — it’s just reported.
- The tuxedoed man becomes generic and loses menace without the snake’s smile or the eerie description of his eyes.
Let’s look at another scene. This is from The Silver Dagger, the second novel in my Vampires of Crimson Cove series:
Excerpt:
“At the edge of the small tourist-centric town of Crimson Cove, the former nightclub known as The Crimson Corset stood vacant and alone, the silver light of a high full moon painting the face of the building, adding color to the long-dead façade like the stroke of a mortician’s brush. Beyond the blackened windows, dust had settled over the club’s interior, filming the unused dance floors and bars like a second skin. For months, nothing had stirred within or around the place; even the massive windmill fronting the building hadn’t dared to make a move.
Tonight, as a cool September wind began to rise in the little village, growing until the pines shuddered under its command, the windmill at The Crimson Corset began to spin, creaking in slow, lazy circles at first, and then with a great fury, lending a sense of presence, of returned life, to the forgotten property.”
How does this excerpt show instead of tell?
Instead of telling us “The club was creepy and abandoned,” the text shows decay through:
Imagery: “silver light… like the stroke of a mortician’s brush” evokes both beauty and death.
- Detail: “dust… like a second skin” makes neglect tactile.
- Personification: The windmill’s stillness and sudden fury make the property feel alive, as if the building itself is waking up.
The shift from “nothing had stirred” to the wind’s command and the windmill’s movement conveys suspense -- something is changing, something is returning. The words are chosen to evoke a vampiric atmosphere.
The reader feels dread because of what’s shown (moonlight, dust, silence, then movement), not because the narrator tells us it’s ominous.
Here’s what “telling” the scene would look like:
At the edge of Crimson Cove stood an old nightclub called The Crimson Corset. It was abandoned, dusty, and lifeless. For a long time, nothing had happened there. On a September night, a strong wind blew through the town and made the windmill at the front of the building turn quickly, which made it look like the club was coming back to life.
Why it’s weaker:
- It simply states facts: abandoned, dusty, lifeless, strong wind.
- It strips away all imagery (no mortician’s brush, no second skin of dust, no personified windmill).
- The mood is told (“coming back to life”) instead of evoked.
When you compare this with the original, you see how the original’s metaphors, sensory detail, and personification create atmosphere -- the showing does the emotional work, not the telling.
In summation, how do you show, not tell? In addition to paying attention to all the senses -- sight, sound, taste, smell, touch -- you focus on emotional impact, on the feelings you want to evoke.
But there’s one more trick, and it comes from a priceless piece of advice I was given early on: Strike out the adjective and find the verb. Doing this shifts the focus from simply stating a quality or emotion (telling) to actively portraying it through vivid action or behavior (showing). Adjectives often tell the reader what to think -- for example, calling a character “beautiful” or “angry” tells the reader how to feel about them in a summary way. Removing the adjective forces the writer to express those traits or emotions through descriptive verbs and sensory details. This allows the reader to experience the scene directly rather than being passively informed.
Instead of saying “the beautiful woman smiled at him,” if you said, “His face flushed warm in the heat of her stare,” then the reader is feeling what he feels -- his heat and emotion. Now we know he thinks the woman is arresting, without being told.
This approach engages the reader from an emotional standpoint. Verbs trigger the reader’s imagination more effectively than adjectives, and reduce reliance on passive descriptions, which leads to stronger, more dynamic prose. In short, striking out adjectives in favor of verbs supports the principle of “show, don’t tell” by creating active scenes that let readers experience the story through action rather than summary.
Now, go show a story!
