How to Incorporate Visual Storytelling: Show, Don't Tell.

I’m going to share some thoughts on how to make our writing really pop. It’s not just about spinning a good yarn; it’s about making that yarn feel so real you can almost touch it. My goal is to pull you right into the story, letting you feel the emotions, see the scenes, and get to know the characters, not through simple statements, but through vivid, tangible details. This is what I mean by visual storytelling – the art of “show, don’t tell.” This isn’t just a style choice; it’s a core principle that can elevate prose from pretty good to truly amazing, turning passive reading into an immersive adventure.

A lot of us get the concept of “show, don’t tell” in our heads, but then we struggle to actually use it consistently. We might say a character is sad instead of showing tears silently tracking down their cheeks. Or we describe a setting as dangerous instead of illustrating a rusty padlock on a splintered door and the faint stench of decay. My aim here is to bridge that gap, giving you a comprehensive, actionable framework for weaving visual storytelling – that “show, don’t tell” commandment – into every single thread of your writing. We’re going to move past just talking about it and get into the nitty-gritty, with concrete techniques and examples you can immediately try to bring your stories to life.

Why Just Telling Makes Your Story Weaker

Before we dive into how to show, let’s really grasp why telling isn’t the best approach. When you tell, you’re basically handing over a summary, a quick digest of information. This actually takes away the reader’s chance to discover, to figure things out, to really participate in the story. Think of it like being given a list of cake ingredients versus actually being in the kitchen, watching the flour dust the countertop, smelling the vanilla, and feeling the warmth from the oven.

Telling creates distance. It robs your writing of urgency, immediacy, and that emotional connection. Take these common telling statements:

“Sarah was angry.”
“The old house was creepy.”
“John was a kind person.”

Each of these gives information, but they don’t evoke anything. They tell us what to feel or think, instead of letting us experience that emotion or perception ourselves. This takes away the reader’s role and stifles their imagination. As a writer, my goal isn’t just to pass on information, but to create an entire experience. And that experience is built piece by piece, scene by scene, through sensory details and observable actions.

The Foundation of Show, Don’t Tell: Using All Five Senses

The most basic way to get into visual storytelling is through our five senses. Our brains process the world through sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. When I fill my writing with these sensory details, I ground my reader in the reality of the story. This isn’t about listing every single sensory input; it’s about picking the most evocative and relevant details that paint a vivid picture in the mind and really ramp up the emotional punch.

Sight: Our Main Window

This is the most obvious sense and the one we use most often. But let’s think beyond just colors and shapes. What specific visual details can truly reveal a character, a mood, or a setting?

Instead of: “The room was messy.”
I’d show you: “A half-eaten pizza box lay cock-eyed on a stack of unread novels, and a single, crusty sock clung to the lampshade, daring anyone to touch it.” (This shows mess, but also hints at a specific kind of neglect or personality.)
Instead of: “He was scared.”
I’d show you: “His breath hitched, shallow and rapid, and his eyes, usually a calm hazel, darted around the cavernous hall like trapped birds.” (Shows fear through physical manifestation and observable behavior.)

I try to focus on specific, concrete nouns and vivid verbs. Is it just “a tree” or is it “an ancient oak, its gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers, clawing at the bruised twilight sky”?

Sound: The Hidden Music

Sound adds incredible depth and atmosphere. What do my characters hear? What are the ambient sounds of their world? Even silence can be incredibly powerful.

Instead of: “The city was noisy.”
I’d show you: “The incessant wail of sirens cut through the humid night, briefly eclipsing the distant rumble of the subway and the aggressive honk of a taxi stuck in gridlock.” (Identifies specific noises, creating a sense of urban chaos.)
Instead of: “She felt alone.”
I’d show you: “The only sound in the vast, empty house was the deliberate tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall and the unsettling creak of settling timbers above her head.” (Silence punctuated by ominous sounds amplifies loneliness and unease.)

I always think about the texture of sound: is it sharp, muffled, metallic, echoing, whispering, roaring?

Smell: The Most Evocative Sense of All

Smell is a potent trigger for memory and emotion, often bypassing conscious thought. It can transport a reader instantly.

Instead of: “The bakery smelled good.”
I’d show you: “A warm, yeasty perfume, laced with the sweet promise of cinnamon and the comforting note of melting butter, spilled out onto the street, drawing her in like a siren’s call.” (Specific smells evoke a delightful, appetizing scene.)
Instead of: “The abandoned building smelled bad.”
I’d show you: “The air inside hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of decay, mingled with the metallic tang of rust and the acrid bite of mildew blooming behind water-stained walls.” (Distinct, unpleasant smells convey dilapidation and corruption.)

I don’t just name the smell; I describe what it’s like or what it reminds the character of.

Taste: Intimacy and Immediate Experience

While not always applicable, taste can be incredibly impactful when used thoughtfully. It grounds the reader deeply in a particular moment.

Instead of: “The coffee was bitter.”
I’d show you: “He took a cautious sip, the scalding, acrid liquid coating his tongue like scorched earth, leaving a metallic aftertaste that made his teeth ache.” (Specifics of bitterness and its physical effect.)
Instead of: “She enjoyed the meal.”
I’d show you: “The tender lamb, seasoned with a fragrant blend of rosemary and garlic, melted on her tongue, each bite a burst of savory richness that momentarily silenced the anxieties gnawing at her.” (Focuses on specific flavors and how they affect the character.)

Taste can be literal or even metaphorical (e.g., “the bitter taste of defeat”).

Touch: Texture, Temperature, and Sensation

Touch brings a visceral, immediate connection. It includes temperature, texture, pressure, pain, and comfort.

Instead of: “It was cold.”
I’d show you: “The biting wind clawed at her exposed skin, raising goosebumps on her arms and chilling her to the bone even through her thick wool coat.” (Specifics of cold’s effect.)
Instead of: “The fabric was soft.”
I’d show you: “The silk draped against her fingers like a cool, liquid whisper, its exquisite smoothness a balm against the rough edges of her day.” (Specifics of softness and its comforting effect.)

I think about the weight, resistance, and impact of touch. Is it a gentle caress or a crushing blow?

Beyond the Senses: Action, Dialogue, and Body Language

While sensory details are the foundation, true visual storytelling expands into how characters behave, what they say (and don’t say), and how they carry themselves. These elements are inherently visual and can reveal depths often missed by simple declarative statements.

Action and Behavior: What Characters Actually Do

Instead of telling you a character is heroic, I’d show them rushing into a burning building. Instead of telling you someone is lazy, I’d show them leaving dirty dishes beside the sink for days, or slumping in a chair, remote in hand, while chores pile up around them. Actions are the most direct window into character, motivation, and emotion.

Instead of: “He was nervous.”
I’d show you: “His left foot tapped a restless rhythm against the scuffed linoleum, a tremor running through his clasped hands like a silent alarm. He cleared his throat, but no words emerged.” (Specific physical actions demonstrating nervousness.)
Instead of: “The argument escalated.”
I’d show you: “Her voice, initially a low growl, climbed in pitch with each accusation, until it fractured into a high-pitched shriek. He slammed his fist onto the table, the ceramic mug beside it rattling against the impact, and surged to his feet, eyes blazing.” (Observable behaviors showing escalation.)

I focus on specific, observable movements and reactions. What does their body do? What objects do they interact with, and how?

Dialogue: So Much More Than Just Talk

Dialogue is such a powerful tool for showing, not telling, but it often gets underused. It’s not just about conveying information; it’s about revealing character, how people relate to each other, tension, and even unspoken meanings.

To infer emotion through word choice & pacing:
- Telling: “She was frustrated.”
- Showing (Dialogue): “Really? Again? You just… you just don’t listen, do you?” (The repetition, the implied tone, and the question structure all show frustration.)
To reveal background/history without a big explanation:
- Telling: “He had a traumatic past with dogs.”
- Showing (Dialogue): “Don’t just… don’t let it near me. The way it breathes, that low growl. Reminds me of…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the floor, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. (The character’s reactions and incomplete statement hint at a past trauma.)
To show subtext and unsaid things: Sometimes, what characters don’t say, or the way they avoid a topic, speaks volumes.
- Telling: “They avoided the topic of their failing marriage.”
- Showing (Dialogue):
  “Did you pick up the dry cleaning?” she asked, her voice deliberately flat, eyes fixed on the newspaper.
  “No. I was busy,” he muttered, not looking up from his phone.
  A heavy silence settled in the kitchen, broken only by the clinking of her spoon against the bowl. (The mundane conversation masking deeper issues, the avoidance of eye contact, and the silence are all telling.)

I always try to make sure my dialogue sounds natural and authentic to the character. Each person should have their own distinct voice.

Body Language and Gestures: The Silent Script

Body language, often overlooked, is a goldmine for showing inner states. A slouch, a rigid posture, a nervous tic, a dismissive wave – these unspoken cues convey immediate information.

Instead of: “She was arrogant.”
I’d show you: “She leaned back in her chair, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips as she surveyed the room, her gaze lingering on the nervous intern like a lion considering its prey.” (Her posture, smile, and gaze all convey arrogance and dominance.)
Instead of: “He felt defeated.”
I’d show you: “His shoulders slumped, the crisp white shirt suddenly too large for his frame. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it a disheveled mess, and simply stared at the blank wall, his jaw slack.” (Physical posture and actions indicative of defeat.)

I pay close attention to:
* Posture: Upright, slouching, rigid, relaxed.
* Facial Expressions: Subtle shifts in eyes, mouth, eyebrows.
* Hand Gestures: Fidgeting, clenching, open palms, pointing.
* Eye Contact: Direct, averted, darting.
* Proximity/Mirroring: How characters position themselves relative to others.

Mastering the Nuance: Selective Detail and Inference

While the goal is to show, it’s really important not to just dump every single detail onto the page. That just leads to information overload and dulls the impact. The real art is in selective detail – choosing the most precise, impactful details that imply or infer larger truths. My reader is smart; I want to let them connect the dots.

The Power of the Specific: Pinpointing Your Details

Generic descriptions tell; specific details show. When I say “a flower,” I’m telling. When I say “a wilting crimson rose, its petals edged with brown, clinging stubbornly to a snapped stem,” I’m showing.

Instead of: “The office was depressing.”
I’d show you: “The fluorescent lights hummed with a low, oppressive drone, casting a sickly yellow glow on the gray cubicle walls. A single, dusty fern, its fronds bleached near-white, sat forgotten on a corner desk, looking as lifeless as the stapler beside it.” (Specific details like fluorescent lights, specific colors, and the dying fern convey depression without stating it.)

Guiding Inference, Not Stating Conclusions

My job is to provide the breadcrumbs, not the entire loaf. I present the scene and let the reader draw their own conclusions about character traits, emotional states, or thematic implications.

Telling: “He was a man who deeply regretted his past actions.”
Showing (Guiding Inference): “Every morning, he traced the jagged scar above his left eyebrow, a phantom ache echoing the single, drunken punch that had cost him everything. He never spoke of that night, but the silence, heavy and permanent, spoke for him.” (The act of tracing the scar, the phantom ache, and the lasting silence allow the reader to infer regret and its profound impact.)

The Art of Juxtaposition: Contrasting Elements

Placing contrasting elements side-by-side can be incredibly effective in showing rather than telling.

Telling: “The wealthy family was unhappy.”
Showing (Juxtaposition): “Their mansion gleamed, marble floors reflecting the chandeliers like twin suns. Yet, a silent, icy tension hung in the air, thicker than the expensive perfume worn by the hostess, whose smile never quite reached her vacant eyes. Her husband, across the vast dining table, chipped away at an expensive crystal glass with his fingernail, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the gilded walls.” (The opulent setting contrasted with the coldness, the hostess’s forced smile, and the husband’s destructive habit clearly show unhappiness despite wealth.)

Practical Application: How I Edit for Show, Don’t Tell

Now that we’ve really explored the techniques, let’s talk about putting “show, don’t tell” into practice in our writing process. This often happens most effectively during revision, because first drafts are usually more prone to telling.

I Identify and Challenge Every Adjective and Adverb

Often, telling hides in our adverbs and adjectives. “She walked sadly” tells. “She shuffled, her gaze fixed on the scuffed toes of her shoes, shoulders hunched as if bearing an invisible weight” shows the sadness through action and posture.

My exercise: I go through my draft and highlight every adjective and adverb. For each one, I ask myself: Can I show this instead? Can I replace this word with a concrete noun, a vivid verb, or a sensory detail that implies the same meaning?

I Look for Abstract Nouns

Words like “happiness,” “anger,” “fear,” “love,” “beauty,” “intelligence” are abstract. While sometimes necessary, they often signal a missed opportunity to show.

Instead of: “Their love was deep.”
I’d show you: “He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, his touch as gentle and familiar as the sunrise. She leaned into it, a soft sigh escaping her lips, her eyes closing in contentment.”

“To Be” Verbs (Is, Was, Were, Are) as Red Flags

While not always bad, a lot of “to be” verbs can sometimes indicate telling. They often signal a declarative statement rather than an active portrayal.

Instead of: “The dog was happy.”
I’d show you: “The dog’s tail thumped a rapid tattoo against the wooden floor, its wet nose nudging her hand, a low rumble of pure contentment vibrating in its chest.”

The “How Do I Know That?” Test

When I read a sentence that tells, I ask myself, “How do I know that? What did I see, hear, smell, taste, or feel that led me to that conclusion?” Then, I write that.

Telling: “The room was cold.”
How do I know that? “My breath misted in the air. Goosebumps rose on my arms. I shivered and pulled my sweater tighter. The window pane felt icy to the touch.”
Showing: “My breath misted in the frigid air, and shivers chased goosebumps across my arms as I pulled my sweater tighter. The window pane, when I touched it, was icy enough to numb my fingertips.”

I Expand on the Moment

Sometimes telling happens because I’m rushing through a scene. My strategy is to slow down. I zoom in on a specific moment and explore it through sensory details and character reactions.

Telling: “The cat was curious about the bird.”
Showing (Expanded Moment): “The ginger cat, ears swiveling, crouched low, its emerald eyes fixed on the robin pecking at the window sill. A tremor ran through its twitching tail, and a low, guttural rumble vibrated in its throat, a silent promise of pounce.”

The Art of Balance: When I Do Tell (Sparingly)

Even with its huge importance, “show, don’t tell” isn’t an absolute, unbreakable law. There are rare instances where a careful use of telling can be effective, especially for pacing or summarizing.

Summarizing Lesser Moments: I don’t need to show every walk to work or every meal. When a moment isn’t crucial to the plot or character development, a simple summary (telling) can move the narrative along efficiently.
- “The next three weeks were a blur of paperwork and late nights.” (This efficiently summarizes a period of time without unnecessary detail.)
For Direct Exposition and Clarity: Sometimes, for the sake of clarity or to deliver a specific piece of information concisely, telling is totally appropriate. This is often true in non-fiction, but even in fiction, a short, direct statement can be more effective than a convoluted attempt to “show” it.
- “The year was 1942, and the war raged across Europe.” (This directly sets the historical context.)
As a Breather: After a particularly intense scene filled with vivid showing, a brief moment of telling can give the reader a chance to process and catch their breath.

The key for me is conscious choice. When I tell, it has to be a deliberate decision, not just a lazy habit. If I tell, I always ask myself, “Is there any way I can show this more effectively? Is this telling statement serving a specific narrative purpose, or am I just being lazy?”

Cultivating a Visual Storyteller’s Mindset

Embracing “show, don’t tell” feels like more than just learning a technique; it’s a fundamental shift in how I approach my craft.

I Try to Be an Observer: I’ve started paying closer attention to the world around me. How do people really behave when they’re angry, happy, embarrassed? What unique sounds, smells, or sights define a particular place? I keep a notebook of these observations.
I Read Actively: When I read, I really pay attention to how other authors achieve vividness. I highlight sentences that show powerfully. I try to dissect them. What sensory details, actions, or dialogue do they use?
I Practice Deliberately: I’ll pick a single paragraph from my writing and actively challenge myself to rewrite it, transforming every telling statement into showing. I even pick a mundane scene and try to make it come alive with sensory details.
I Embrace Revision: I understand that my first draft will likely contain a lot of telling. And that’s totally fine. The real magic happens in revision. I treat “show, don’t tell” as a powerful editing tool.

Visual storytelling through “show, don’t tell” isn’t about just making things fancy; it’s about authenticity. It’s about respecting my reader by inviting them into the very fabric of my story, letting them see, hear, feel, and experience every beat, every emotion, every profound truth I want to convey. My words become windows, not just mirrors – reflections of reality, yes, but also portals to new worlds and deeper understanding. The journey from telling to showing is a continuous evolution, but it’s one that will fundamentally transform my writing, making it more resonant, more memorable, and infinitely more powerful.