As I will surely say again, I object to creative-writing classes. I object to the notion that there is anything to be taught. To learn, perhaps, from accomplished example; but to be taught abstractly from contrived example?
I especially object to the notion that there are any rules of writing. Rules of language, yes, of grammar, of standard usage; but
not of writing. "Rules" of writing tend only to mislead novices. The goal is good writing and, truly, good writing is discerned in the unique event. If a story works, it works. One can see patterns in good writing, I
suppose; or better yet, patterns in
bad writing; but the distillation of "rules" is misguided.
If you have taken any instruction at all on writing creatively, you have surely heard this hoary "rule": Show, don't tell. This can be interpreted different ways. Usually it means: Don't report the facts; dramatize them. Not "She was angry" but "She cursed and pounded the wall." Which may or may not serve your story... Most of the time, however, this causes some terribly overwrought writing. What, after all, is so bad about saying "She was angry"? What is the point of the word angry if I'm to hesitate using it? While it is true that writing is not language, writing should not also be an abandonment of language. Angry exists because it is useful. Whether or not it should be used depends not on a silly "rule" but on the context of the passage and the intent of the author.
I realize that even advocates of show, don't tell would not dispute the importance of context and intent; nor would they, out of hand, reject a simple "She was angry." But their "rule" is therefore not a rule. It is, at best, a suggestion not to fail to be vivid. And even then, who's to say that drab is never appropriate?
One particularly pernicious application of show, don't tell affects larger narrative: It is that one must not "summarize" the action of a story. One should, rather, depict as much as one can. "Immerse your reader!" Well, yes, immersion is pretty much the goal; but telling can be as effective as showing, after all. Indeed, isn't it called "story-telling"? One can draw a reader in without depicting anything — at least, not in a dramatic sense. Drama is only necessary in theater.
I was particularly reminded of this as I was reading Mansfield Park.
Fanny Price, our heroine, has been living with her cousins at Mansfield Park. They are now in their late teens and early twenties. She has feelings of love for her cousin Edmund, her only real ally in the household. Now, while Fanny's uncle is gone from England, two socially vivacious visitors come to Mansfield Park: Mary and Henry Crawford. Amidst the other upheavals the Crawfords bring, the young men and women decide to put on a play — mostly for their own amusement. Fanny has misgivings about the Crawfords and about this play. She is nonetheless pulled into the preparations.
While she is helping Mary with her part, Edmund arrives to ask for Fanny's help with his part. As it was, Fanny had been playing Edmund's part against Mary's; now with Edmund himself on hand, he (instead of Fanny) rehearses with Mary. Here is the passage from Volume I, Chapter xviii.They must now rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her shrank — she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes more than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt of it again that very day.
Now consider my point: Between They must now rehearse together and At last the scene was over are 182 words in maybe a dozen clauses constituting six sentences. The rehearsal is over within the course of a longish paragraph. Keep in mind: In the play Mary is secretly in love with Edmund. In real life Mary is eyeing Edmund; Edmund is dazzled by Mary; and Fanny is infatuated with Edmund and unsure of Mary. My oh my: Such potential for explosive drama! The back and forth one could depict! All the showing one could do! Yet Austen disposes of it all in six sentences. Six sentences of telling.
Austen does not show that Fanny becomes agitated; Austen just says: "...and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, [Fanny] had once closed the page and turned away..." That's it. Fanny was agitated. Austen tells you Fanny was agitated. You're not immersed in any action; at best, bits of action are briefly acknowledged. Edmund entreats; Mary cannot refuse; Fanny is made an observer. Fanny shrinks from criticizing. She forgets herself; becomes agitated; closes the page. They impute weariness to her. The end! Austen's summary is far more evocative than mine but nonetheless a summary.
A telling, my friends; not a showing. This passage immersed me in Fanny's predicament — yet I was given not a single line of dialogue and only a few discontinuous stage directions. No one, it seems, ever told Jane Austen that show, don't tell was the means to great writing; and we have only benefited from Austen's ignorance.