The Most Common Writing Mistake: Why Telling And Exposition Are Actually Good

Writing advice that insists on “show, don’t tell” often gets treated like a rulebook—when it’s really a partial tool. A common failure mode for intermediate writers is avoiding exposition so aggressively that clarity collapses, prose turns bloated or tangled, and themes never fully land. The core claim here is straightforward: telling and exposition aren’t just acceptable; they’re frequently necessary, and most writers who struggle would benefit from using more of them—carefully and with craft.

The argument starts by reframing “show, don’t tell” as incomplete. Learning to show is essential, but once that lesson becomes a fear of overt statements, writers start implying everything instead of stating key information. That avoidance creates clarity problems, because readers can’t reliably infer what the writer refuses to name. It also encourages “purple prose,” where writers try to replace simple statements with overwrought imagery and adjective-heavy alternatives—mistaking directness for dullness. Even when writers try to avoid “telling,” they often end up padding: awkward detail, confusing phrasing, or information delivered indirectly.

A second major consequence is structural and informational. Writers who dread exposition frequently try to smuggle information through dialogue, even when narrative exposition would be more natural. Dialogue can work, but the guidance is that it’s most appropriate when the information is limited to what a side character knows (especially in first person or third-person limited). Otherwise, narrative telling is the best disguised form of exposition. The same pattern shows up with emotions: instead of naming an emotion or stating it plainly, writers may label it (“sadness,” “anger”) and then add decorative description, which still doesn’t communicate the feeling—just the label.

The transcript also argues that too much showing can backfire by preventing ideas from being unpacked. When themes, motives, and character traits remain buried in subtext, the story can become distant and hard to access. Writers may also fall into “reverse info-dumping,” where a single sentence of exposition is replaced by an entire scene that doesn’t advance plot—like staging a visit to a bakery simply to establish that a father owns one. Similarly, fear of “chronology tags” can lead to confusing time jumps, even when the skipped period is irrelevant.

The proposed fix isn’t to abandon showing, but to treat telling as a tool that can support what’s on the page. Good telling is well-written and interesting, and it adds depth rather than flattening characters. It also needs to align with what readers see: static facts (like a job) can be told efficiently, while active traits (like avoidant behavior) should be demonstrated through scenes. Telling can even function as a form of showing when it reveals deeper meaning.

A concrete example comes from Otessa Moshfegh’s Eileen, where the narration uses frequent, seemingly “telling” sentences about the protagonist’s personality and inner state. Those statements work because they fit the retrospective frame and are reinforced by what follows, acting like thesis statements that anchor the reader before the story’s details play out. The takeaway is that intermediate writers often stall because they’re underusing exposition, not because they’re using it too much. When telling is clear, compelling, and supported by evidence, it makes stories more punchy, accessible, and immersive—rather than less so.