Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tennyson wrote, but really, we all know what tears mean, right? Sadness. So sad. So very very sad. The saddest. Have reached sadception. Pining for the fjords. Something.
What we might not know is that “tears” are a literary crutch. This month I’m going to discuss writing emotion without using your crutches, getting one step closer (pun intended) to “show, don’t tell.”
Why do you want to show, not tell?
When you tell a reader “I was sad” they think, “well, ok, so what?” There’s very little to connect with there, even though we’ve all been sad at some point. Let’s look at how it works in a more developed piece of writing:
“I never want to see your face again,” Nathan said coldly, “or hear your lying tongue wag.” The door closed behind him more quietly than I expected. I felt sad.
That kind of leaves a reader out in the cold, right? When you tell a reader the conclusion, you take away half the enjoyment of reading, the sensation of being there with you (or your character, fiction writers) in the moment. Instead of saying “I felt sad,” what you really want to do is give them all the evidence of sadness and let them reach their own conclusion about what feeling that adds up to.
Now try this:
“I never want to see your face again,” Nathan said coldly, “or hear your lying tongue wag.” The door closed behind him more quietly than I expected. Tears welled up in my eyes.
On the surface, this looks like a better version of the paragraph. But is it really? “I cried” isn’t much better than “I was sad” in terms of showing vs. telling. When you rely on a commonly understood shortcut to tell the reader what feeling you’re having, you’re right back to telling, aren’t you?
But look at this:
“I never want to see your face again,” Nathan said coldly, “or hear your lying tongue wag.” The door closed behind him more quietly than I expected. Everything was more quiet than I expected, from the sound of my heels clicking across the linoleum to the car engine starting as he drove away. I picked up my phone and stared at it; I wanted to call, but what if this new silence was everywhere? I put the phone down without even pushing the “on” button.
How can you tell if you’re, uh, telling?
One way to identify a “tell” is if you’re using the verb “to be” a lot, or naming the emotion you’re feeling. “I was happy,” “I would have been desolate,” and “I am thrilled” are all examples of telling the reader what you’re feeling rather than letting them reach their own conclusion.
Another way is to get familiar with your own writing. Are there words you chronically overuse? Mine are “shrug,” “grin,” “ruefully” and “mourn,” that last used as a synonym for “to say.” Occasionally lovely, but not eight times in forty manuscript pages. If you find yourself using a particular word to convey an emotion more than once every eight or so pages of text (which, yes, might mean once every four to eight essays or stories), you’re probably leaning on it pretty hard. Consider other ways to convey the same meaning.
Yet another way is to look for cliches in your writing. I’ll give you a short, noninclusive list below. If you’re using any of these terms or phrases, take a good hard look and make sure there isn’t a better way to show the reader what you mean instead of using crutches – shortcuts that ‘everyone knows means you’re experiencing _________ness.’
Sadness
Tears, “the air was sucked out of the room,” “I fell to the floor,” moaning, weeping, “eyes welled (and/or spilled over) with tears.”
Happiness/Excitement
Grin, “my heart leapt,” “her eyes sparkled,” “he held his breath”
Anger
red face, gritted teeth, snarl
Love
“My heart swelled (or skipped a beat),” “butterflies in my stomach.”
Fear
Tremble, shiver, quiver, felt ill, couldn’t eat.
And more….
Writing about emotion is hard, especially strong emotion. But using shortcuts so you don’t have to deal with the hard part isn’t doing you – or your reader – any favors. Skip the crutches and walk out like Nathan did. Someday, you’ll thank me for it.
