(Don't) Explain yourself!

So, there's this TV show here in Britain that Big Chimp and I like to watch. It's called Springwatch, and it's a live nature show broadcast over three weeks every spring. These people put cameras everywhere: bird nests, badger setts, fox dens, bat caves, and anywhere else you can think of out in nature. It's a fun, informative program. But a couple of years back, Big Chimp noticed one of the presenters, Chris Packham, doing something funny. As Packham talked about the animals, he would drop in titles of songs by The Smiths. He never acknowledged or made reference to what he was doing, and I probably wouldn't have even noticed it if Big Chimp (who is a huge music freak) had not called it to my attention. Shortly after that, we noticed something else—the note cards Packham was holding had artwork on the back of them—album artwork.

As the show went on, we began to appreciate it on two levels; we were still learning all about Britain's amazing wildlife, but we were also playing the game of seeing how many of Packham's popular culture references we could spot. Last year, Packham was at it again, but with song titles by The Cure. This year, it was all about sly references to Welsh rock band Manic Street Preachers. And the allusions didn't stop there. At one point, while examining a nest of writhing grass snakes in a compost heap, Packham took a small model airplane from his pocket and placed it on top of the pile. Then he walked away, moving on to the next segment without any further explanation.

Springwatch presenters Chris Packham, Kate Humble, and Martin Hughes-Games*

As I watched Springwatch 2011, the idea for this blog post was born. Because Packham's allusions reminded me so much of good writing. He explains what needs to be explained—the animal's behavior, its life cycle, its habitat. He gives us enough information so that we know what's going on. But he also gives us extras, things we have to figure out, things we might miss if we're not paying close enough attention.

If Chris Packham had said "Pay attention because I'm going to be dropping song titles into this episode, and it's going to be weird and random and amusing," it would have been lame. If he had said, "Get it? Like Snakes on a Plane, only a plane on some snakes? Get it? Get it?" viewers would have changed the channel. The great thing is the lack of explanation.

Just like explanation makes jokes lose their humor, over-explanation can make your reader lose interest in your story. It's annoying to always have the author telling you what to think and feel. The reader wants to be challenged, wants to figure things out without being spoon-fed. It's rewarding. It's fun. Over-explaining makes it look like you don't think the reader is smart enough to put two and two together. It makes you look insecure.

A better strategy is to show them what's happening, and let them draw conclusions by themselves.

Example:

Too much explanation:

Looking at the empty swing made Violet feel sad, lonely and afraid. It made her think of her brother who had disappeared. She shivered, not from cold, but from fear.

Better:

Watching the empty swing twist in the warm breeze, Violet swallowed the knot in her throat and shivered.

Both passages are saying pretty much the same thing, but in the second example, the author is trusting that the reader can infer that, seeing the empty swing, Violet feels lonely. The knot in her throat? She feels sad. And because it's warm out, she's not shivering with cold—she must be afraid.

Trust your readers. Drop their hands; give them less. They are still with you, I promise. And reading your book? It'll be just like heaven.

*Photo credit: Nature UK website, BBC. http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/uk/ 29 June 2011.