Quiet Narrators, Loud Meaning ~ Narrators Series #3

Let's explore how spare, unflourished prose can speak volumes about character, tone, and truth. I'll analyse an excerpt sentence by sentence, then share specific considerations to achieve this.

“Show don’t tell” is everywhere. It’s one of the most repeated pieces of writing advice, often tossed around like a magic fix for any storytelling issue. You’ll hear it from editors, reviewers, readers, and fellow writers—but rarely with a clear explanation of what it actually means, or how to do it.

For something that sounds so simple, there’s surprisingly little guidance on how to not tell when you’re, well, telling a story.

This series, The Narrative Voice, aims to push back against that vagueness by offering practical, grounded advice—often paired with close readings of real excerpts. And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing today.

But before we dive in, let me ask you something:

What if a writer tells on purpose… in order to show?

I think the answer to that question depends on how similes, metaphors, and lyrical phrasing are used to evoke something in the reader. From there, it’s easy to assume that a narrative devoid of all of those could be misunderstood as “too telling”.

But what if the narrator’s voice is not flourished? What if they are matter-of-fact?

Let’s evaluate a few hypothetical characters:

• A soldier or mercenary—say, a cyberpunk enforcer or a Spartan warrior—is not likely to think in similes. You might expect short, clipped sentences. Military terms sneaking into daily speech (e.g., using ‘flank’ instead of ‘side’), minimal adjectives, and maybe even active disdain for anything that feels excessive.

• A strategist, FBI negotiator, or chess player—or anyone deeply logical—might focus entirely on the present moment. Their inner monologue could become stripped down, all function, no flourish. Especially in tense scenes, you would get curt, efficient prose.

• A poet or lyricist, someone usually narrating in a verbose or adorned language, may shift to a flat “telling” voice during a tense, panic-riddled moment. Imagine them in a thriller, running for their life—they are not going to be comparing shadows to velvet or time to birdsong. They are just trying to survive.

These are just some examples, but we can draw a commonality: when used with intention, so-called “telling” prose can build up the narrative character, becoming a stylistic strength—one that reflects something deeper about who the character is (e.g., their backstory), or the emotional state they’re in.

In those cases, a clipped, non-flourished prose becomes loaded with meaning. The reader would just need to ask: what does this say about the narrating character?

To explore that further, let’s look at an excerpt that does this brilliantly.