I had an opportunity to write some non-fiction in the early part of my career, and since my stories weren’t doing very well, I decided to take the chance. I wrote about computers at a time when I could learn a lot, more than the average reader, just by studying the ads in Byte magazine. Then write what I had learned in language that even I could understand. I wrote a few books, collaborated on one, updated part of a textbook, wrote some articles, and was a contributing editor for a couple magazines. But computers went beyond my limited expertise and, though my writing skills were still in demand, and I decided to stop and focus on my fiction again. I was happier with that. 

I was approached some years later by a high school junior who, like others in her class, had to find a mentor who could help her understand the kind of work she might do after college. Kristin thought about being an editor, her parents knew about me being a writer, so they suggested that she come to me. 

We met every couple weeks to talk about what an editor does, and I suggested that she take a look at the first few chapters of Stroad’s Cross, which had been rejected several times, to see if she could tell me what she thought I need to do to make it better. When we met again a couple weeks later, she told me that she hadn’t been able to read very much of it. I asked her to explain, as that might help me understand how I could revise it. None of the rejecting editors had told me anything, even the one who had taken two years to reply.

She showed me the pages she had marked, and told me that she hadn’t gone any further because it was boring. That is probably the worst critical comment writers can hear about their work.

She told me that there was too much detail. I had spent a lot of time working on that detail. I looked at the pages she had marked, she explained what the red comments meant, and she was right. My characters, if they were caught up in the story, wouldn’t pay any attention to most of the details I had put in, only to those which furthered the story. I thanked her, told her I would look at it later, and we talked about other things.

Her red-ink comments, and what she had told me, let me know what I could do with the manuscript. I cut it by about twenty percent on the first pass, by taking out a lot of the description which none of my characters would notice, and which my readers didn’t need. The story, not just the text, was greatly improved. I went through it again, with a better understanding of what needed to be done, and the story got better. I gave Kristin credit in the front matter. Some of my fans have told me that it’s their favorite. 

It was only within the last year or so, while I was reading an article in The Smithsonian, that I finally realized why I had written Stroad’s Cross that way. I had been using using the style I had learned for writing non-fiction. It’s the way most articles are written in The Smithsonian. I can provide that level of detail if it is needed for clarity, and leave it out if it’s not. 

What I want, is for my readers to get into the story, until they can almost experience it the way my characters do. When I’m reading fiction, I read slowly, in real time — most people probably don’t read stories this way — and I can almost see the settings, and what I think the characters look like. I can hear the dialogue, the tones of voice, the difference between one speaker and another. I can, in my imagination, feel what the hands touch or what touches the skin, smell what the character smells, and be, sometimes, inside the character’s head, so that I am aware of their thoughts or emotions without being told.

But I can’t have that experience if the text is like this: “He opened the door to a living room. A large red sofa, a bit ragged, was on the right, under a picture window that let in early morning light, slightly dimmed by a thin overcast. On the left were two large overstuffed chairs, both older than the sofa, one blue, one green plaid, with a small table between them. There was a coffee table in middle of the room, with a glass ashtray, an empty coffee cup, and several sheets of paper. In the far left corner …” The description goes on for another two hundred words or more, before ‘he’ (we eventually learn his name) goes in and does something. I can see a lot, but what does all that description do for me? 

The problem with Stroad’s Cross was that I was telling what was there, not showing what my character saw; telling what the details were, not showing those that the character noticed. The above example could be rewritten in fifty words, including name, movement, and smell, which is important, not in the two hundred fifty or more which a full description would require. If my readers want a story, they don’t want a magazine article about the details of the houses, rooms, forest, and so on. At least I don’t think so. Kristin certainly didn’t want that.

Sometimes telling is better, even in a story. It depends on the context, and what I’m trying to do. I wrote this essay with lots of telling in early drafts, when I was capturing my ideas. It has taken me a long time to come to this final version. But when I’m writing a story, of whatever length, I am just transcribing what is in my head, and many drafts follow before I can get it right, so that I can read it as if I were in the story. 

And when I’ve done that, I hope that my readers will be in it with me.