1133 showing not telling and pivot points.pptx

1. Telling (or, rather,
showing) non-
fiction stories

2. Telling (or, rather, showing)
non-fiction stories
Show, don’t tell.

3. Telling (or, rather, showing)
non-fiction stories
Show, don’t tell.
BEFORE: Hot water burbled in samovars. You strolled cobblestone
streets, clicking your heels. DURING: You sipped grass soup. Dug the
ditch for your murdered mother. AFTER: You slaved stitching
stockings in sweatshops. My alcoholic grandfather cracked open your
skull with a cast-iron skillet. You danced at Roseland Ballroom,
smelling of bleach and herring, wearing tangerine-colored wigs. You
played Ken so I could be Barbie. Fed me Golden Delicious. Sang
lullabies to my sons. You screamed in the hospital, “Mara, the SS are
coming. Hide!” I kissed your forehead. Vowed I’d be okay. You closed
your eyes.

4. Telling (or, rather, showing)
non-fiction stories
Show, don’t tell.
BEFORE: You were pretty happy as a child, before the Nazis took over.
DURING: You were miserable after the Nazis came. They killed many in
your famiy. AFTER: You were still pretty miserable after the war, too,
because your family was so poor that you had to work long, hard hours.
My grandfather was traumatized by the Nazi era. It made him almost as
violent and abusive as they were. Sometimes you were happy, though,
like when you would go out with friends. You liked to dance, even though
you couldn’t afford fancy clothes and accessories. Sometimes you would
play with me and then make me lunch. You liked to play with my
children, too. In the hospital, when you were dying and delirious, I felt so
bad. I told you I’d be all right. You died soon after that.

5. Telling (or, rather, showing)
non-fiction stories
Show, don’t tell.
Find the pivot points.

6. Telling (or, rather, showing)
non-fiction stories
Show, don’t tell.
Find the pivot points.
– Break at every new action, description, or piece of
dialogue.

7. Telling (or, rather,
showing) non-fiction
stories
Humans of New York
“I liked drugs, but that wasn’t the reason. And it wasn’t that
I needed money either. I had money. I just wanted more of
it. Back then I could rob every bank in the city and nobody
would notice. There were hardly any cameras. I robbed
about thirty before I even got caught. But one night when I
was twenty-five years old, I went to rob a jewelry store. The
guy was a criminal himself. He bought jewelry from thieves.
Of course, I thought he’d panic and give me the money, but
he pulled a gun on me. So I shot him twice. I only meant to
shoot him once but I squeezed the trigger too hard. He
ended up losing an arm. And I went to jail for thirteen
years—that son of a bitch. He should have just stayed put.
Now I’m 62. I’m a veteran. I just got out of jail for the
seventh time in December. I’m sleeping on this bench.
Looking back, it’s been a horrible life. I should have done
things differently. I should have invested the money I stole.”
(Madrid, Spain)

8. Avery’s draft
At 4:40 on a Saturday night in November of 2007, May stood, with bare feet, on cold sand. White foam
greeted the tips of her toes as waves rolled in and out. It was cold on the beach, and wind blew briskly by,
tangling her long blonde hair and blowing her brown patterned skirt wildly in all directions. As the sun sank low
in the sky, the 7-year-old girl begged to go home, but her mother refused her requests because May’s
grandmother had yet to arrive. They had planned to meet at 4:30 to take a family picture, featuring all three
living generations of the family, but May’s visiting grandmother, Mary Ann Becklenberg, was not in sight, and
the picture could not be taken without her.
Mary Ann had been visiting her son’s family, May’s family, in the small ocean-side town of Pacific Grove,
California for about three weeks, and when Heidi, Mary Ann’s daughter-in-law, suggested meeting at a nearby
beach for a sunset picture to commemorate her trip, she enthusiastically agreed. Mary Ann frequently visited
that beach, and had walked there alone countless times before, so when she did not arrive on time for the
picture, her family began to worry. The sun was setting quickly, and if Mary Ann did not arrive soon, the picture
would be rescheduled.
The sun set at 4:52 pm that night, and Mary Ann was still nowhere in sight. The beach plunged into
darkness, so the family decided to go look for her. May and her family loaded into the car and drove slowly
along the coast, looking for signs of their loved one. After driving about a mile in anxious silence, Heidi’s eyes
rested upon the silhouette of woman shivering in the cold on the side of the road. Realizing it was Mary Ann,
carrying her favorite purse and wearing gold earrings and red lipstick, they pulled over, stopped the car, and
motioned for her to climb in.
Mary Ann reluctantly approached the car, a concerned, bewildered look in her eyes. She sat down in the
vehicle, and Heidi began to ask questions. “Where were you?” she exclaimed, expressing her concern. “Are you
alright? What happened? Was I unclear about which beach we went to?” Mary Ann, clearly confused but
relieved to have found her family, was equally concerned. She seemed to believe that her family, not herself, had
gotten lost; she did not realize that the section of beach where she had waited was a mile away from their usual
meeting spot. The family rode back to Mary Ann’s cottage in silence. May, still bitter that she was forced to
stand so long on the cold beach, did not pay much attention to her grandmother’s distraction and distress.