This is rugged bushland not far from suburbia, though you wouldn’t know exactly where it is just by looking at the photograph
But, for the writer, this is an excellent setting.
For instance, once again we are out wandering in the bush, lost. It’s not hard to get lost, and stay lost if there are no recognizable landmarks, and given we all walk with a bias to one side or the other, and we have to avoid objects like trees, ravines, animals, and rocks, keeping a straight line is impossible.
But the question is, how did you get into the bush in the first place?
It’s not as if you would deliberately go there, just to if you can get lost.
No, my idea is that you have been kidnapped and drugged, then taken to a location either in the book of a car or just in the back seat with a hood, then dropped off and left to die
The criminals in this story are more efficient in getting rid of pesky witnesses.
Or maybe it’s something less sinister, like going out and counting the koalas in the bush, well, what’s left of the bush as the suburban spray takes more and more of the koala’s habitat.
And it could also be like the planet of the apes, the koalas start fighting back.
It’s one of those grey, dark, wet mornings where you can inadvertently sleep in because the bedroom remains dark for an extra two hours.
That could be a problem if you have a day job, like most of us.
But, today is Friday, and it’s just what I need. The news is telling us that six months worth of rain just fell in one hour. That’s a lot of rain, but it isn’t going to break the drought.
But that’s not a topic that can make a story work. I need something poetic, dramatic, or a catalyst.
Time to mull over the latest storyline, marshal my thoughts, write the prose in my head.
OK, that not working for me.
The rain is getting heavier, and is splashing outside; the steady waterfall of overflow from the gutters is taking away my concentration.
Rain, rain, go away …
I have two different visions.
A cold, grey day in London (is there any other sort of day?) waiting for a train, and seeing the woman of your dreams go past, standing in the doorway, and in that fraction of a second your eyes meet, a connection is made.
I suspect it has fuelled many a song such as ‘The Look of Love’.
The second is on a desolate section of coastline as for north as you can go in Scotland (yes, I am a glutton for punishment), and she is standing on the cliff top gazing out to sea, hair blowing in the wind. Silent, strong, resolute.
Rain gone.
Notes hastily scribbled in a notebook for later reference.
Time to go out and check if the garden has derived any benefit at all.
Day 295 – Don’t tell the readers what they already know about life
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Why Charles Simic’s Advice to “Not Tell Readers What They Already Know” Can Transform Your Writing
…
Introduction
“Don’t tell the readers what they already know about life.” — Charles Simic
Charles Simic, the Serbian‑American poet and former U.S. Poet Laureate, was famous for his razor‑sharp wit. This single line may sound almost like a tautology, but it holds a secret weapon for every writer: trust your audience.
When you assume readers have the same life experiences you do, you risk preaching, over‑explaining, and, ultimately, boring them. The modern reader craves connection, not instruction. In this post we’ll unpack Simic’s advice, see why it matters in today’s content‑driven world, and give you concrete steps to keep your prose fresh, resonant, and—most importantly—show rather than tell.
1. What Simic Really Meant
1.1 A reminder of the “show, don’t tell” principle
Simic’s statement is a riff on the classic show‑don’t‑tell mantra taught in every creative‑writing class. While “show” urges you to let actions, dialogue, and sensory details illustrate a point, Simic sharpens it: don’t waste precious words on truths the reader already carries.
1.2 Why it matters today
Attention economy: Online readers skim. A sentence that restates the obvious is a fast track to bounce‑rate.
Reader empowerment: Audiences enjoy the pleasure of discovering meaning themselves. It feels like a partnership, not a lecture.
Depth over surface: By discarding the obvious, you free up space for nuance, subtext, and emotional resonance.
2. The Pitfalls of Over‑Explaining
Common Over‑Explainers
Why They Fail
Better Alternative
Heavy “moral of the story” statements
Feels preachy; removes reader agency
Let the narrative’s arc imply the lesson
Repeating universal truths (“love is painful”)
Redundant; cheapens impact
Use a specific anecdote that embodies the truth
Expository dumps under the guise of “background”
Slows pacing; creates info‑overload
Weave backstory into dialogue, setting, and action
Overly literal metaphors (“the storm raged like a lion” )
Cluttered, cliché
Choose fresh, concrete images that spark imagination
3. Trusting Your Reader’s Intuition
3.1 Readers bring their own life experience
Even if you think a concept is obvious, each reader’s cultural background, age, and personal history shape how they receive it. By offering breadcrumbs rather than a full meal, you respect their intelligence.
3.2 The “Goldilocks Zone” of information
Too little: Readers feel confused or alienated.
Just right: Readers fill gaps, feel involved, and remember the story.
Too much: The narrative becomes a lecture.
Finding the sweet spot is a skill—one we’ll develop in the next sections.
4. Techniques to “Show, Not Tell” the Known
4.1 Use specific, concrete details
Instead of saying “She was sad,” describe “She traced the rim of her coffee cup with a trembling finger, the steam fogging the window as her eyes refused to meet his.” The emotion is inferred, not stated.
4.2 Leverage dialogue
Let characters voice their worldview. A line like “I guess we’re all just trying to stay afloat” hints at life’s struggle without the author’s narration.
4.3 Play with sensory language
Touch, taste, sound, and smell evoke feeling. The scent of rain on pavement can conjure renewal without commenting on it.
4.4 Deploy subtext and implication
A character’s silence, a lingering glance, or an unfinished sentence can say more than an explicit explanation.
4.5 Trim expository filler
Ask yourself: Is this sentence necessary for plot, character, or theme? If the answer is “no,” cut it.
5. Embracing Ambiguity & Subtlety
Simic didn’t recommend vague writing for its own sake; he championed purposeful ambiguity. When you leave room for interpretation, you invite deeper engagement.
Open‑ended endings let readers project their own experiences onto the story.
Symbolic objects (a cracked mirror, a broken watch) can hold layered meaning.
Contradictory actions (a smile in grief) provoke curiosity and empathy.
6. Applying Simic’s Advice Across Genres
Genre
What “don’t tell” looks like
Example
Literary fiction
Focus on inner nuance, avoid moralizing
Instead of “He realized love was fleeting,” show the wilted roses he places on the table.
Thriller
Keep suspense by revealing only what the protagonist knows
Don’t tell the reader the killer’s motive before the reveal.
Non‑fiction
Trust readers to connect facts themselves
In a business article, present data and let readers draw the conclusion.
Blog content
Provide actionable insights, not “obvious” advice
Skip “Write regularly” and share a unique workflow that helped you meet deadlines.
Poetry
Use metaphor rather than declarative statements
Rather than “Life is painful,” write “The night bleeds into the dawn.”
7. Common Mistakes & How to Fix Them
Narrative “hand‑holding” – Fix: Cut adverbs that explain feelings; replace them with visual cues.
Over‑reliance on exposition – Fix: Convert exposition into scenes or dialogue.
Assuming universality – Fix: Research diverse perspectives; test your piece with beta readers from varied backgrounds.
8. Practical Exercises
Exercise
Goal
How to Execute
The 30‑Word Scene
Strip to essentials
Draft a scene in 30 words that conveys a full emotional beat.
Show‑Only Rewrite
Replace “telling” sentences
Find five “telling” lines in a recent draft and rewrite them using only actions, senses, or dialogue.
Reader Gap Test
Identify unnecessary explanations
Share a paragraph with a friend and ask them to “fill in the blanks” where they think you’ve over‑explained.
Metaphor Hunt
Replace generic statements
Locate any sentences that begin with “It was …” and replace them with a concrete metaphor.
Silence Exercise
Use subtext
Write a dialogue where the main conflict is never spoken outright.
9. Key Takeaways
Trust your audience. Readers bring their own life experience—don’t waste words reiterating the obvious.
Show, don’t tell with concrete details, dialogue, and sensory language.
Embrace ambiguity to create richer, more memorable writing.
Tailor the approach to your genre, but the core principle remains universal.
Practice relentlessly. Use the exercises above to train your instinct for what to leave unsaid.
10. Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Isn’t some exposition necessary for clarity? A: Absolutely. The key is balance. Give readers only the information they need to stay oriented, and let the rest unfold organically.
Q: How do I know if I’m over‑explaining? A: If a sentence could be replaced with a sensory detail or an action without losing meaning, you’re likely over‑explaining.
Q: What if my audience is younger or less experienced? A: Adjust the depth of implied knowledge, but still avoid stating the obvious. Use relatable analogies instead of explicit explanation.
Q: Does this mean I should avoid “life lessons” altogether? A: Not at all. Life lessons shine when they emerge from the narrative’s events, not from the author’s direct commentary.
Q: How can I apply this advice to SEO‑focused blog posts? A: Write for humans first—use engaging storytelling, vivid examples, and data-driven insights. Then sprinkle SEO keywords naturally; avoid keyword‑stuffed “obvious” statements that sound like filler.
11. Closing Thought
Charles Simic’s advice isn’t a command to become cryptic—it’s an invitation to collaborate with your readers. By withholding the obvious, you give them space to connect the dots, feel the emotions, and remember the story. The next time you reach for a line that tells rather than shows, ask yourself: Does my reader already know this? If the answer is yes, let the scene breathe, and watch your writing become more alive, more authentic, and ultimately, more unforgettable.
Ready to rewrite? Grab your latest draft, highlight every sentence that says what instead of how, and start swapping the tell for the show. Your readers (and your Google rankings) will thank you.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
Day 295 – Don’t tell the readers what they already know about life
…
Why Charles Simic’s Advice to “Not Tell Readers What They Already Know” Can Transform Your Writing
…
Introduction
“Don’t tell the readers what they already know about life.” — Charles Simic
Charles Simic, the Serbian‑American poet and former U.S. Poet Laureate, was famous for his razor‑sharp wit. This single line may sound almost like a tautology, but it holds a secret weapon for every writer: trust your audience.
When you assume readers have the same life experiences you do, you risk preaching, over‑explaining, and, ultimately, boring them. The modern reader craves connection, not instruction. In this post we’ll unpack Simic’s advice, see why it matters in today’s content‑driven world, and give you concrete steps to keep your prose fresh, resonant, and—most importantly—show rather than tell.
1. What Simic Really Meant
1.1 A reminder of the “show, don’t tell” principle
Simic’s statement is a riff on the classic show‑don’t‑tell mantra taught in every creative‑writing class. While “show” urges you to let actions, dialogue, and sensory details illustrate a point, Simic sharpens it: don’t waste precious words on truths the reader already carries.
1.2 Why it matters today
Attention economy: Online readers skim. A sentence that restates the obvious is a fast track to bounce‑rate.
Reader empowerment: Audiences enjoy the pleasure of discovering meaning themselves. It feels like a partnership, not a lecture.
Depth over surface: By discarding the obvious, you free up space for nuance, subtext, and emotional resonance.
2. The Pitfalls of Over‑Explaining
Common Over‑Explainers
Why They Fail
Better Alternative
Heavy “moral of the story” statements
Feels preachy; removes reader agency
Let the narrative’s arc imply the lesson
Repeating universal truths (“love is painful”)
Redundant; cheapens impact
Use a specific anecdote that embodies the truth
Expository dumps under the guise of “background”
Slows pacing; creates info‑overload
Weave backstory into dialogue, setting, and action
Overly literal metaphors (“the storm raged like a lion” )
Cluttered, cliché
Choose fresh, concrete images that spark imagination
3. Trusting Your Reader’s Intuition
3.1 Readers bring their own life experience
Even if you think a concept is obvious, each reader’s cultural background, age, and personal history shape how they receive it. By offering breadcrumbs rather than a full meal, you respect their intelligence.
3.2 The “Goldilocks Zone” of information
Too little: Readers feel confused or alienated.
Just right: Readers fill gaps, feel involved, and remember the story.
Too much: The narrative becomes a lecture.
Finding the sweet spot is a skill—one we’ll develop in the next sections.
4. Techniques to “Show, Not Tell” the Known
4.1 Use specific, concrete details
Instead of saying “She was sad,” describe “She traced the rim of her coffee cup with a trembling finger, the steam fogging the window as her eyes refused to meet his.” The emotion is inferred, not stated.
4.2 Leverage dialogue
Let characters voice their worldview. A line like “I guess we’re all just trying to stay afloat” hints at life’s struggle without the author’s narration.
4.3 Play with sensory language
Touch, taste, sound, and smell evoke feeling. The scent of rain on pavement can conjure renewal without commenting on it.
4.4 Deploy subtext and implication
A character’s silence, a lingering glance, or an unfinished sentence can say more than an explicit explanation.
4.5 Trim expository filler
Ask yourself: Is this sentence necessary for plot, character, or theme? If the answer is “no,” cut it.
5. Embracing Ambiguity & Subtlety
Simic didn’t recommend vague writing for its own sake; he championed purposeful ambiguity. When you leave room for interpretation, you invite deeper engagement.
Open‑ended endings let readers project their own experiences onto the story.
Symbolic objects (a cracked mirror, a broken watch) can hold layered meaning.
Contradictory actions (a smile in grief) provoke curiosity and empathy.
6. Applying Simic’s Advice Across Genres
Genre
What “don’t tell” looks like
Example
Literary fiction
Focus on inner nuance, avoid moralizing
Instead of “He realized love was fleeting,” show the wilted roses he places on the table.
Thriller
Keep suspense by revealing only what the protagonist knows
Don’t tell the reader the killer’s motive before the reveal.
Non‑fiction
Trust readers to connect facts themselves
In a business article, present data and let readers draw the conclusion.
Blog content
Provide actionable insights, not “obvious” advice
Skip “Write regularly” and share a unique workflow that helped you meet deadlines.
Poetry
Use metaphor rather than declarative statements
Rather than “Life is painful,” write “The night bleeds into the dawn.”
7. Common Mistakes & How to Fix Them
Narrative “hand‑holding” – Fix: Cut adverbs that explain feelings; replace them with visual cues.
Over‑reliance on exposition – Fix: Convert exposition into scenes or dialogue.
Assuming universality – Fix: Research diverse perspectives; test your piece with beta readers from varied backgrounds.
8. Practical Exercises
Exercise
Goal
How to Execute
The 30‑Word Scene
Strip to essentials
Draft a scene in 30 words that conveys a full emotional beat.
Show‑Only Rewrite
Replace “telling” sentences
Find five “telling” lines in a recent draft and rewrite them using only actions, senses, or dialogue.
Reader Gap Test
Identify unnecessary explanations
Share a paragraph with a friend and ask them to “fill in the blanks” where they think you’ve over‑explained.
Metaphor Hunt
Replace generic statements
Locate any sentences that begin with “It was …” and replace them with a concrete metaphor.
Silence Exercise
Use subtext
Write a dialogue where the main conflict is never spoken outright.
9. Key Takeaways
Trust your audience. Readers bring their own life experience—don’t waste words reiterating the obvious.
Show, don’t tell with concrete details, dialogue, and sensory language.
Embrace ambiguity to create richer, more memorable writing.
Tailor the approach to your genre, but the core principle remains universal.
Practice relentlessly. Use the exercises above to train your instinct for what to leave unsaid.
10. Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Isn’t some exposition necessary for clarity? A: Absolutely. The key is balance. Give readers only the information they need to stay oriented, and let the rest unfold organically.
Q: How do I know if I’m over‑explaining? A: If a sentence could be replaced with a sensory detail or an action without losing meaning, you’re likely over‑explaining.
Q: What if my audience is younger or less experienced? A: Adjust the depth of implied knowledge, but still avoid stating the obvious. Use relatable analogies instead of explicit explanation.
Q: Does this mean I should avoid “life lessons” altogether? A: Not at all. Life lessons shine when they emerge from the narrative’s events, not from the author’s direct commentary.
Q: How can I apply this advice to SEO‑focused blog posts? A: Write for humans first—use engaging storytelling, vivid examples, and data-driven insights. Then sprinkle SEO keywords naturally; avoid keyword‑stuffed “obvious” statements that sound like filler.
11. Closing Thought
Charles Simic’s advice isn’t a command to become cryptic—it’s an invitation to collaborate with your readers. By withholding the obvious, you give them space to connect the dots, feel the emotions, and remember the story. The next time you reach for a line that tells rather than shows, ask yourself: Does my reader already know this? If the answer is yes, let the scene breathe, and watch your writing become more alive, more authentic, and ultimately, more unforgettable.
Ready to rewrite? Grab your latest draft, highlight every sentence that says what instead of how, and start swapping the tell for the show. Your readers (and your Google rankings) will thank you.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
It wasn’t the fact that Cecilia was asleep in the next bed, though it was a little unsettling, more it was the series of events that got me to this point.
Something didn’t add up.
I had one of those sixth sense moments, one of the times when I did close my eyes, and in looking down on myself, tied to a chair, with Larry holding a gun to my head screaming it was all my fault.
In that scenario, it had been far too easy for him to take me. And in the final moments of that reverie, before I opened my eyes, there was a blurred face in the background, the face of the traitor.
Only I could not get a clear view of who it was.
The bottom line, it was a trap. Everything pointed to it, and while I wanted to believe what I had decided was the right option, Cecilia was right. I had been out of the game too long’ and Rodby was right to send a set of fresh eyes.
Juliet was a pawn, coerced to do Larry’s will because of her brother, and her note was a story no doubt conceived out of careful planning on Larry’s part. He was hoping I would treat him like a moron.
And the irrefutable truth of the matter was that Larry was not going to stop, not unless he had a compelling reason to.
It was about 2 in the morning when I got out of bed and shut myself in the bathroom, and sat on the floor seemingly staring into space, but running scenarios, like I used to.
An hour later, I had a plan.
The first call was to Alfie who was, by a quirk of fate, still awake.
“This had better be good.”
Awake, but in a cranky mood.
“Larry’s in Sorrento with his family isn’t he?”
“Wife and eldest daughter. The son is in Milan at the moment visiting another relative. Why?”
“You’re going to have them picked up and taken to a place where we can talk.”
“Are you mad?”
“Quite sane, I assure you.”
“Rodby warned me this might happen. Taking them is nigh on impossible given their security.”
“Not where I’m intending you pick them up. Just assemble a team and wait for my text on where and when.”
“Rodby will never OK this.”
“Tell him it’s an opportunity not to be missed and to send his best interrogator.”
Without another word, he hung up.
Rodby might think I was a little radical, and at times I was, but my successes outweighed the failures, and he had always wanted to get Larry into a one-on-one to answer some questions. If he tried not to overthink it, this could turn out to be a genuine opportunity.
The second call was to Larry’s mother. She had always been a night owl and I suspected she might be at a party somewhere given the rowdy background noise on her phone when she answered.
I said, “It’s been a while.”
Silence. I had the awful feeling for a moment that she might either dismiss me or simply hang up.
Then, with a lot less background noise, she said, “nnn, how lovely to hear from you again. I was sorry to hear about Violetta. I came to the funeral but thought it best not to intrude.”
I had not seen her but I knew she would have come. And she was right, I was in no fit state of mind that day to address anyone.
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Now, I know this is not a social call because my son is here and I’ve been waiting for a call.”
“Sorry. I should have called you sooner but it’s been difficult especially to talk to those who knew her, and yes, it’s about Larry. For some reason he’s decided to come after me, blaming me for his brother’s death.”
“No surprise to me, though. It’s become his latest obsession. The reason is obvious, especially to family. The provisions of his fathers will come due in three weeks’ time, and if it’s proved that one brother killed the other, then he forfeits his half of the inheritance, and we are talking a lot of money and property.”
“You know the truth about his bother as well as I do.”
She had asked me to try and convince Fabio, Larry’s younger brother, not to join the family business and I had convinced him that it was his mother’s wish for him to go back to Italy where her family lived.
That was when Larry stepped in and forced him to do one last job. Larry should have been at the delivery, not send his brother in his place, and it did occur to me that Larry knew it was going to go bad.
I followed Fabio there, and witnessed the deal fall apart, the buyers were expecting Larry, not his brother. But that was not the worst of it. An armed gang came out of the shadows and started shooting. I tried my best to protect Fabio, taking out the armed gang, but Fabio had been hit, but not fatally and even I left him, before the paramedics arrived, he was alive or conscious.
What happened from the moment I left him and he arrived dead on arrival at the hospital was only something Larry could explain. I had provided his mother with physical proof of Fabio being alive at the meeting, and she too had questions that Larry had never adequately answered.
“He will not believe me, and because if who I am, he has turned the others against me. He has become smarter in the last few years.”
“Who’s helping him, I can’t believe he’s capable of doing all this on his own.”
“He says it is, actually bragging about it.”
“I was surprised Brenda and Valentina came with him. She hates you.” Brenda was his American wife, the daughter of Mafia Don, Valentina the daughter.
“And, that’s the hell of it. You know the saying misfortune makes strange bedfellows, well, she tells me he’s having an affair, but I got the boys to have a look into the matter and it’s not an affair. She is the head of a rival gang that’s been incrementally taking over our turf and now I know why. She’s got him dangling in a string.”
A lot can happen in a few years. The only rival gang that I could think of was the DeBortino’s. If this woman was a problem perhaps the seeds of my plan could be extended slightly to help her with her problem and get rid of mine
“I want to get Larry off my back, and you want to be a good mother-in-law so perhaps we can help each other.”
“What do you have in mind.”
I told her, and at least she didn’t snort at the idea.
Then, after thinking about what Larry’s mother had said I sent a text message to Alfie asking for a deep dive into her life and business, and if she had any dark secrets.
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
…
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
Back on earth, before this mission, before I had been selected for the crew, we had to spend time learning diplomacy.
I didn’t mind it because I was used to working with multiple nationalities as crew members aboard the cargo ships I worked, some often at odds with each other, and I had to broker peace.
But this brand of diplomacy was more about meeting aliens from other worlds and what to do, even though those running the sessions really had no clue. The problem was, we would have no idea of what their customs and rules were, much like on earth where the same applied, but you could look them up before going to an ‘alien’s destination.
I could say that now I had experienced one encounter. And nothing we did in any of those sessions gave me any help or guidance on what I should do. Yes, we may have learned a little about their culture, but that was never going to be enough, not in the time I had in front of them.
What needed to happen was for us to set up something similar to the old-time embassy where we could exchange information and prevent the problems of new travellers before they got here. And there would be more travellers now we had the spaceships and not everyone was going to be a positive influence’ ad the Russian example quite clearly illustrated.
But, getting someone or some people to stay with unknown people on a relatively unknown planet, was going to be a difficult ask.
It was one of a dozen topics on the head of department meeting I had called immediately after being transported back to the ship’ joined by the Princess’ whom we had agreed to return to her people.
I suspect that the aliens who had all but incarcerated her did not want to wear the wrath of her people. Perhaps we would be treated better and hopefully, we would be able to engage in meaningful diplomatic discussions. It was a subject I had raised with the Princess when escorting her to her transit quarters. Accommodation befitting a Princess.
She was hateful to come aboard but she seemed apprehensive to go home. That was something else that would fuel another conversation. Because there was definitely more to that story. I didn’t quite trust our so-called new friends.
The next task was to ensure the princess had a private security detail, and dampeners installed to prevent her being transported off the ship.
After that my first call was to the diplomatic unit where I gave them five minutes of my thoughts on the subject before heading back to my quarters to freshen up, and get down the bare bones of the report I was eventually hoping to send on our first encounter, one that I doubted was over yet.
I will still be getting over the fact they knew of our existence, lived among us, and we had no idea. And they didn’t believe we were worthy yet to be told. Sadly, given my knowledge of humankind, I was not really surprised, but others like the Admiral would be shocked and offended and it was their reaction I was worried about.
It was also not so much of a surprise there were others out there, places and people, we knew nothing about because our telescopic technology still wasn’t up to see beyond the limits of our known galaxies and we were the first well technically the second to go beyond it.
And now we proved we could get to that theoretical barrier, set at Pluto, perhaps a telescope launched from there might help us see what was beyond in the first instance because they did hint at a number of civilisations with their own galaxy.
My idea would be to suggest caution and not hit them with a flood of ships but to spend time building a space station at the edge, and then launch exploratory forays from there, when it was complete. It would take time ten or more years, but the aliens weren’t going anywhere.
But I knew it didn’t matter what I thought. That was up to the Admiral and the rest of the Space Alliance, and they would want to be out there getting as many aliens on side, much the same as the others would.
The Russian ship had stayed long enough to offload the prisoners and get ready for the return trip. That was going to be some homecoming because the Space Alliance was going to want answers long before it hit Earth’s outer limits.
Stolen technology, an unannounced foray into space that could have ultimately destroyed any chance of relations with our nearest space neighbours, I wouldn’t want to be the captain of that vessel, at home, or in front of an international jury.
It highlighted just how easy it was to make mistakes, or how badly everything could go wrong very quickly over a nuance. His background hadn’t helped him either but that shoe could also have fitted elsewhere too. I had been lucky, he had not.
I walked into the conference room packed with both relevant and interested parties, all eyes on me. It was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Whatever noise there was had subsided into silence.
