[Editor’s note: A million apologies for not writing the first chapter of The Gingham Sword. I could explain, but it would sound like an excuse. Assuming my life has a tolerable amount of chaos in it, there SHOULD be one next week, or another million apologies.]

I’m a writer. At least, that’s what I try to be. I started a writer’s critique group in Houston, and I regularly sharpen my writer-fu by reading, reading, reading, and seeing what I like.

My reading shows me what I like in the same way that a car enthusiast would look at cars to see what he or she likes. I like stories that get good mileage, are sleek, quirky, unique, and colorful. I like them to have a nice sound system, and to have some of the cool bells and whistles. If I have to work hard, I want the story to pay off. Stuff like that.

So, in my critiquing and my reviewing, I find myself often citing a particular indispensable tome: The Turkey City Lexicon. I highly suggest you read it, study it, know it, and most of all, follow it, when you write. Of course, much like Kurt Vonnegut’s rules to writers, you are welcome to break these rules, if you have a good reason to.^[1]

I find that the most common malady in self-published and small press writing is exposition. This is referred to as “show, not tell” in the Lexicon.

As a brief example, here’s the difference.

The Scene: A man walks into a room, where a woman with a gun is already waiting there for him.

Tell

Detective John Everyman entered his office after a long day scrounging the docks for clues regarding Mrs. Felicia MacGuffin’s husbands supposed infidelities. He still smelled of the fish and fowl, and salt seemed to crust his skin and sleeves. He was unable to find any clue of infidelities, but he did find a great seafood place he’d have to take Marcia to on their anniversary, if she could get over the ambient smell of the sea.

When he flipped on the light, he saw a medium-height woman standing there. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, red lips, and a red dress. In her hands she held a Walther PPK, and it was pointed at his chest.

He had no idea who this woman was, or whether she had the determination to pull the trigger. He felt the reassuring weight of his own Magnum in its shoulder holster next to his good luck charm, a medallion with a seven pointed star and the latin phrase En Vitus Vitum printed on the front, a gift from his deceased father.

“Who do I owe money to this time?” he asked.

Show

He flipped the switch when he entered the office, and a flicker of light illuminated the room. A blonde woman in a red dress stood before him. She had a grin on her face and a gun in her hands.

“Who do I owe money to this time?” he asked as she leveled the gun at his chest.

While it may not be the best example (I’m pressed for time), do you see the difference? Which one leaves a more lasting impressing in your mind? Which one was easier and more interesting to read?

It’s just my opinion (as someone who reads significantly more than 50 books a year) that the second example, while shorter, leaves me with a whole lot more intrigue than the previous one. Especially if any of the details included in the text are completely irrelevant or have a more natural way to divulge later in the prose (e.g., through realistic conversation, not as-you-know-bobs). I feel that sparse writing that tells you more is more valuable than infodumps.

Though I will admit, there are some times where infodumps are useful. I would refer you to the writings of J. R. R. Tolkien and Neal Stephenson for practical applications of the infodump.

[1] This was, if I’m not mistaken, the last rule, but I can’t seem to find it written anywhere...