Show, Don't Tell

There’s a deceptively simple idea in fiction writing that has endured since the dawn of the craft: show, don’t tell. Instead of writing: “She was angry at him”, we should write something along the lines of: “At the sight of him, her fists clenched, trembled, and it was all she could do to stop herself from reaching out and slapping him. Repeatedly.” We don’t announce meaning; we reveal it through action, behaviour, and the worlds our characters move through. Good writing trusts the reader’s intelligence. It lets them feel the truth rather than be handed it.

I’ve thought a lot about this principle since I started seriously working on my fantasy novel. Not long ago, as I was sketching out some ideas for my magic system, I realised that this rule doesn’t only apply to fiction. It also applies to our lives.

For a long time, I was an expert in telling. I told people I was going to get fit, that I was going to be a bestselling author. I told them about the book I would someday publish, the good habits I would build, the life I would live. I spoke about it with enthusiasm, sometimes even passion. And then… I proceeded to do nothing.

There’s a strange comfort in declaring our intentions out loud. Psychology explains this well: when we talk about our goals, we get a small dopamine hit, a counterfeit sense of achievement. Our brains pat us on the back for work we haven’t done. If we’re insecure, the dopamine hit is even more appealing, granting us a false sense of security. If all I did was talk about the person I wanted to be, I could postpone facing who I actually was.

Looking back, I can see how deeply this pattern shaped me. Talking became my shortcut to feeling like I had an identity I was proud of. It made me feel seen, even if I wasn’t doing anything worth seeing. I wanted to convince myself I was already becoming someone stronger, someone disciplined, someone creative, without enduring the discomfort of actually changing.

For years, I told my wife that I would finally start writing my book. Eventually, she stopped reacting. No more supportive smiles, no more tolerant nodding, simply moving on as though I hadn’t even said anything worth noting. She wasn’t being dismissive or trying to be hurtful. She had simply run out of reasons to believe me, and I couldn’t fault her.

Eventually, I got tired of hearing my own voice. If I was honest with myself, I claimed to value intentional living while casually breaking tiny promises to myself, day after day, year after year. I, too, had run out of reasons to believe myself. So, I was done telling. I needed something to show.

And showing, unsurprisingly, felt terrible at first.

The gym humbled me. I was not the strong, muscular man I had imagined myself to be for so long. My muscles ached; my lungs burned; my ego shrank. Writing is no easier. Each time I sit down to write, whether it’s this blog or my fiction, I am forced to confront the gap between the prolific writer in my head and the beginner at my desk, one with a newfound respect for the craft.

Talking is no longer the work; talking is what happens after the work. One rep here, one sentence there. The more I showed up, the quieter my insecurity became. I didn’t need to talk about how fit I would one day be because I was actually going to the gym. I didn’t need to tell people I was a writer because I was actually writing. The confidence that emerged wasn’t loud. It was steady. The alignment between my words and actions rebuilt something I didn’t realise I had eroded: self-trust.

Show, don’t tell works so well in fiction because readers trust what characters do far more than what they say. Life works the same way. We may not realise it, but our actions are always telling a story, one far more honest than our words. Talk without action dilutes our credibility, chips away at our identity. We compromise the integrity of our inner narrative. Our words lose their meaning—not only to others, but to ourselves.

Like any good story, we shape our lives scene by scene. When we show our work, when we take the smallest step toward who we want to become, we reclaim the quiet dignity of inner harmony. Action becomes the bridge between intention and identity.

So, dear reader, if you find yourself telling the same story about who you want to be, pause for a moment. Look at the gap between the words and the lived reality. Not with shame, but with curiosity. What would it look like to show, not tell? What would one small action do, not for your image, but for your integrity?

Until next week,

Ric