Show & Tell

My last post was originally intended to be a rebuke for 'writing rules' and other advice no one asked for. (Which is totally misnomer. I was absolutely scouring teh Internetz for advice. I just found things that infuriated me.) Something I found absolutely true that I decided to cling to for my bored evening convinced me I needed to just ignore advice for a minute, and the pathetic excuse it was to avoid doing what I should've been doing to begin with- and hammer out a few pages for their own sake.

But tonight is a new night, and I am up later than I should be. To revisit a rekindled flame:

Of all the worthless, counterproductive advice I have heard about writing, I feel the most offensive and pervasive is the infamous, “Show, don’t tell.”

Why? Because it’s misrepresented and self-destructive. Because it’s totted and worshiped by those insipid twits who like to discuss ‘real art’. The kind that dismiss what doesn’t fit into their trivial, small world of finite expectations and parameters for what is worthwhile and what is not.

But most especially because it’s just disingenuous. “Show, don’t tell.” The overall concept, I agree with. Immersion is always better than dictation. But that is the intent; not the law. I find it comical when someone gets hung up on something I’ve written and then cites this to me. If I say that something is happening, or that something is what it is, these people misunderstand the scope, and miss what is being told is showing a larger image that they are too busy playing editor to realize is before them. The instinct to pounce on this begets a nearsightedness that guarantees missing the target. “It’s not so much as missing the forest with the trees, as missing them in a completely different forest.”

Side note, and neurotic tertiary complaint:  One cannot show without telling. One cannot tell without showing. Semantically the concepts are intertwined.

I am aware that I am picking at a topic that has been more contentious than our high-school creative writing teachers would have us believe. (And that it’s 5 a.m. in a guard shack and no one could give two shits about it. These are neuroses for their own sakes. Repetition or parallel? ... Repetition. Admitted.) But I have long been a fan of, you know, actually reading and writing, and enjoying what is read and written, rather than belittling the conveyance. If a thought is communicated and understood, it was successful. If it was enjoyed, it was art. I suppose that makes me a very simple person, but I can’t help but feel there is wisdom in the humility.

I know some people need to really bemoan the changing of the times, and the trend of people enjoying young adult reading when they are not in any way conceivably young adults. Or whatever gets a pretentious didact's panties in a bunch. But, seriously, what is up with this belittling, or even the characterizations to begin with? It’s one thing to pick apart Twilight or The Notebook or 50 Shades of Grey on their individual merits (correct, I wasn’t listing YA novels), but to wholesale dismiss anything is generalization. Generalization. You know, the heart of bigotry?

On another level, and as I have read in some arguments about the subject, it’s just such a lame cliché in itself. A cop out. It’s empty buzzwords that once held relevance in a specific situation that is being stretched too thin, while would-be-professionals parrot it repetitively to cover the entirety of literature. Sometimes- often, even- I fall prey to my compulsion for sesquipedalian loquaciousness and accompanying purple prose. I think in convoluted metaphors. It’s what I do, and I do it well. And the result can be pretty dramatic writing, or (and more often than I’d like) dramatically horrible writing. When I ask for objective opinions to help me figure out a better way to express something, a zombie chant of ‘show, don’t tell’ does nothing for me (nor, I'd argue, for anyone). What you’re trying to say is, ‘focus more on the perspective of the character’, ‘this idea you’re trying to express is too complicated for the method of delivery you’ve chosen’, or even ‘I don’t like it, and I’m not sure why.’ You can contort that into some mindless axiom if you’d like, but that wouldn’t help me. It wouldn’t make a more interesting story, either. It would tell me you're too lazy and disinterested to actually read. (Not read what I wrote. This isn't narcissism. You just don't read in general. Go see a movie, bookworm poser.)

I suppose, in the end, and as it usually is with me, my problem is with the lie of absolutes. All of life is balance. And I would give much for this to not be a saying, but a conventional wisdom: “Make sure you balance your showing and your telling.” Personal preference on if you lean for more or another, but never the idea that one is good and the other is bad. It’s as ignorant as the insinuation that the less adverbs, the better (its own can of worms).

Every author and every writer has tools to build a world, and being told to not use, avoid, or be afraid of any of them is detrimental to not only their world or any worlds, but Fantasia itself. It’s a cruel ploy to young dreamers and aspiring authors who will have enough criticism, and the majority (as with all artists) will be undue.

If there is any rule that I have found helpful and true- and it is the only one thus far that is actually universal- it is:  Write. Write. Write.

No excuses.

Write.

You will not do better if you do not do. You will not do anything, actually. Because you are- y’know- not doing. We are all procrastinators at heart, apparently. I have yet to meet or even hear of a fiction writer who isn’t head-over-heals tumbling for ways to avoid what they supposedly love to do- particularly if it’s for a living. That's fair. It’s understandable. It’s apparently just what we are.

You must write.

…

…

I’m going to go read more articles on the Internet and play Pokemon.

I can write a crappy rough-draft chapter tomorrow on duty.

Advice No One Asked For

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[[Formatting errors.  Roll with it, please.  Blogger doesn't like the taste of Microsoft Word's copy pasta.]]

The sky was a mix of blood and gold, boiling above the simmering black of a silhouette setting on the horizon. Two opaque profiles of still bodies broke the skyline as they stood abreast the southwest abandon of civilization. When they were children, this border of the city, between wedges of encroaching suburbia, was the end of the world. A decaying meadow and unkempt wilderness, surrounded by the naïve hopes from local, reasonable authority figures that innocent, pure children would stay out of trouble, expressed by a pathetic chain-link fence with its thoroughly abused 'NO TRESPASSING' sign.

            Donald had smiled at it when they came in- a mutilated square with chipped paint and gratuitous graffiti. What he had decorated it with himself years ago was faded but replaced by similarly minded youths who bore the torch of harmless teenage rebellion and its accompanying petty anarchy. He, unfortunately, had long since grown up, expanding his limits past states. Countries. Oceans. Breaking into the little enclosure of worthless land offered little beyond the meekest of cheap thrills now; still, childish disobedience in this most-sacred place did garner precious nostalgia.

            Valérie had never been confined by geography.  For her, this boundary represented a cage on her blooming adolescence. A cage only coincidentally forged at the time she and Donnie began sneaking into places they weren’t supposed to go. As the sun sunk further and the shades of twilight shimmered into deeper colors, she considered the luck of her cemented friendship with him. He thought it was fate, but she knew it was a matter of circumstance. That probably would’ve threatened him, but it only made her smile deepen. The best things in life from blind, dumb luck.

            For them both, despite an age of physical and emotional maturity, this field surprisingly left undeveloped by urbanization, still instigated the creeping, giddy excitement of a world for recklessness and flagrant abuse of trust where the law didn’t consistently supervise. That was reason enough to come back here.

            The breeze filtered through Val’s hair, tossing the low hanging spikes like wind chimes, tickling her neck.  She took a deep breath of the cooling air, then noticed Donnie mimicking her mockingly. Unperturbed, she took another deep breath through the nose, and as she heard him inhale, she breathed out through her mouth, listening to his echo, suddenly trailed with a course burp. She nodded in approval. “Solid eight.”

            “Eight?!” he gasped with umbrage. “That was a ten! At least give me a nine!”

            “You pulled it off without any telegraphing. I didn’t expect it- I give you that,” Val’s eyes remained closed, suspended in judgement. “But there was no volume. No bumps,” she strained for the professional term.

            “So I don’t reverberate, and you don’t give me- You knock off a point?”

            “You gotta’ hit that vibrato, Donnie,” she grinned at him.

            Donald chuckled, “ ‘Vibrato’? Who am I? Andrea Borcelli?”

            “Can you imagine?” she snickered. “André, in the middle of an opera? ‘Con~ te~ Par~ti~BELCH.”

            Donald laughed, “Or Adele?”

            “Why you gotta’ hate on Adele, man?” Val gave him a knowing glance.

            “I love Adele, Val! You know that!”

            “Okay-” she turned her back on the sunset’s refuse leaving him with a consolatory chortle and heading for the exit.

            “No! Seriously! ‘I set fire-’”

            “Alright, Donnie!”

            “ ‘To the rai-’”, Donald finished the note with a thick, resounding burp.

            “Oh God,” Val laughed as he chased after her, “Stop!”

            “I have to- Are there any other lyrics to that song?”

            “ ‘Watched it pour as I touched your face’.”

            “That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t even rhyme.”

            “Neither does most music,” Val giggled. “Okay, you know where we’re going from here?”

            “Kinda’. I know my way from Jefferson. We’re going to the MacIntyre Building, right?”

            “That’s the rendezvous. We’re going to the new tower they built on Amsterdam.”

            “They’re still building downtown?” Donnie asked rhetorically. “And the whole group? What’d Conner dream up this time?”

            Val considered while muttering absentmindedly, “If you would listen to Mal instead of bitching, maybe she’d-"

 

            "Gasp. Language." Donald stuck his tongue out at Val.

 

             "Wait, I can take you to Powell, then it’s justa’ few blocks till Jeffers.”

            “Do we have to split?” Donald sighed, as they hit official pavement, careening towards an intersection of crosswalks and roads in actual use.

            Valérie was accustomed to Donald’s whining, expecting it, but something struck her as odd. She felt actual sympathy. Something was wrong. Since when was something wrong? Sure, Donnie could be moodie, but… “What’s wrong?”

            Donald paused. “It’s just a pain in the ass. I get it- It’s safer. But-” Donald caught himself. “I can get myself to Reudreu.”

            “ ‘But’ what, Donnie?” Val pressed. Donald shook his head and Val stared a little longer before wearily playing along with the dismissal. “Reudreu is farther,” the warning a decibel lower as she recanted her gaze. “And I don’t think security is a big deal this time, Don. I’ll just go with you, if you want.”

            Donald shook his head, “I’ll meet you at M. I. Center.” Then he took off, turning at the intersection, hands in his pockets. Val sensed that she should follow him. It tugged on her uncomfortably. She shook off the feeling by turning in the opposite direction. He would be okay. Whatever that was about, Donald was the blink tank. She couldn’t catch him if she tried. Fortunately, neither could anything else- personal demons or otherwise.

            She could see her road would come to a dead end relatively soon, so she pushed the idea of Donnie out of her mind, settling into a slower pace. She clasped her hands together and lifted them high and backward, stretching out her chest. She twisted her head around in strong, deliberate motions until she felt satisfying, little pops along her neck. Before the euphoria could recede, her arms folded back to her sides, her body following into a kneel- Then she bolted, arms swinging momentum and legs cycling into a full sprint. She made a sharp turn at a collapsing building’s alleyway. She had scouted out this course a few days ago with Donnie. She licked her lips in anticipation, her breathing racing faster.

            With a pounce into a unto a closed dumpster, she spun and wall climbed up the short building to its roof. Along slowly swirling fans and oddly shaped metal boxes she galloped up another short wall to the second floor’s roof. On the smaller third tier, she slowed, veered right, then catapulted herself up to and over its edge, leaping with all her might to the adjacent building. She fell into a roll on its upper surface and recounted the next steps. Rooftops seldom lasted long in the lowlands; preparation was key.

            She spent half an hour leaping down and up different walls and their stories, snuck through a delivery trucking company’s enclosed interior, scaled a water tower for no apparent reason, and slid past security cameras on more well-guarded offices that were a marker for her of sorts. Cameras were a kind of building self-esteem; if they were present, the edifice respected itself (and valued what was inside). That meant she was reaching further into the city where wealth and prominence were beginning to materialize. She was getting close to Jefferson Street. 

            After another fifteen minutes, as she glided along a faux bell tower atop a bank she connected it to Clark West Credit Union. She was two blocks south… She prepared to drop herself over the side when an intrusive voice struck her, [Cops. 3^rd and Clark.]

            Goddamnit Donnie!, she shrieked to herself. She halted and began to panic a glance around her. The bank was on the corner of 3^rd and Clark. Cops. Cops nearby… Shit.

            [You’re on 3^rd and Clark, aren’t you?]

            Yes, she grumbled, peeved at Donnie’s limitations. As she began to sneak a peek for the police, she lauded a series of obscenities that she knew he couldn’t hear; his telepathy was a one way street. Usually this was a hindrance, but with the amount of cussing seeping through her mind projected at him, it was probably a good thing in this case.

            [You’ve gotten so quick, Bela!]

            Val was taken aback by the compliment. She blushed and accepted the approval. She had been working routes pretty hard core over the past year and she applauded herself that it was showing so well, even Donald was giving her praise.

            [Work those thunder-thighs! You may even bring sexy back!]

            “You little prick,” Val sneered.

            [Maybe enough to flash some cops out of a ticket? You’ll need that. If they don’t arrest you for R.W.B.]

            “I swear to God, when I get my hands on your anorexic ass, I’m going to rip you-” She heard sirens. “Double shit!”

            [I don’t think they’re after you… If you can hear me, go south.] Val breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was Donnie going to help her out of this, but he wasn’t necessarily sure she was in range… Which meant that maybe she could bluff her way out of the embarrasment. [I mean west, not south.]

            She stalled her confident stride to the south wall and cursed again, “Jesus, Donnie. You are the most useless- Argh!”

            Following his arbitrary instructions- with plenty of caution and a shortage of patience- Valérie was able to lower herself onto surface streets far enough away as to be sure no one would see her. Once safely on the sidewalk, and doing her best to tune Donnie’s repeating words (he had no idea whether or not she was even at the bank, let alone that she had received and used his advice), she stared in the direction of the sirens. “… Your better judgement says not to go that way,” she told herself. Curiosity wasn't sure she believed her own voice.

            [And please don’t check out what’s going on, on 3^rd and Clark. Just be safe. Seriously. Again, if you’re at the bank, go west…]

            “… Donnie, I swear … for the umpieth time…” She rolled her eyes and began walking towards the sirens. Something told her she’d find him in the center of that mess.

            “Bella!”

            Val snapped her attention to the voice across the street.

            A handsome boy waved at her emphatically then called out to her. “It’s not Donnie!”, Conner subdued her. “Come over her.”

            Val looked both ways, then jaywalked her way over to him. “What is it?”

            “Not us,” Conner embraced her.

            Val spoke through the hug, “Unfortunate coincidence?”

            “Were you-”

            “Yes. You know I was. Why do you even ask, Conner?” she let him go, but kissed him on the forehead, unwilling to cease her affections. "And, yes, I know Malaika doesn't approve of it. It gets me across town fast enough."

            He blushed, but didn’t retreat. “I’m glad, honestly. This is going to be more difficult than we expected, so I'd prefer you loose and ready to hardkour it up.”

            Valérie sighed at hearing that. She never liked hearing bad news from Conner. Nothing was worse, really, than hearing your oracle tell you bad things were coming. “How difficult?”

            “Gerome and Nazrin are already with Don. Erik and Ricky are driving to Malaika. Tristan-”

            “I’m not asking for where everyone is, Conner,” Val tried to be gentle with him.

            “I know, I know,” Conner waved her off. “This way,” he pointed back up 3^rd Street, away from the whirling blue and red lights that became ever more present as dusk sunk in at last. “I just need your can-opening skills. Everything is going to be fine, though. I promise.”

            “ ‘Fine’ fine, or ‘we’ll survive’ fine?” Val followed reluctantly.

            “I’ll owe Tristan another set of pants, but no one will get hurt. That kind of fine.”

            Val appraised that. “… Meh, sounds worth it.”

            “Oh, it always is. I've gotten him on a better diet. Speaking of which, are you working out? Looking good, good lookin'."

 

            "Careful, or I just might keep you for myself," she winked at him. Yeah, everything will be fine after all.

 

            [Val, seriously, hurry up and get your fat ass away from the credit union. Chop, chop. I'm getting tired of repeating this message. And make me a sandwich while you're at it.]

 

            "Can I kill Donnie?" Val raged.

 

            "No," Conner lamented, "we need him, too, sadly."