Vote for Contest Winner!
Thanks to all of you who entered the Show vs. Tell contest! I was impressed with the entries and can see everyone really working on “showing” in their writing.
If you want to tell us about your experience with this exercise, leave a comment here. Was it harder than you thought it would be? Did you learn anything as you focused on “showing”?
As usual, it was difficult choosing possible winners! I’ve chosen my favorites from the bunch and I’m going to let you vote. Also tomorrow I’m going to post a few more “honorable mentions” and give you my thoughts about them. (If for some reason you DON’T want me to post and/or critique yours, be sure to let me know today.)
So here they are, my TOP SIX.
Our physics teacher’s voice became background noise. I was sneaking glimpses of Haylee and drawing her profile in my notebook. On my next peek–there she was, looking right at me. Time froze, while the temperature in the room climbed ten degrees. Celsius.
Little had changed in twenty years. There. Just there in the delicate, rolling meadow leading to the manor, amongst the tangle of oak roots, he had played pirate. A five-year-old hellion, terrorizing the sheep he pressed into service. And over there, he had dug furiously for the buried treasure sure to be discovered under the cherry tree his mother loved to paint.
He frowned. He had forgotten his mother painted.
“OK, can I get everybody’s phone numbers? I’ll call you with your exact time.” Sarah circled up with the others and Ted’s pen, posed above his clipboard, kept tempo with the rhythmic numbers. Then it was her turn. Breaking the syncopation, Ted looked up at her with a grin. She relished the pause, then fought back a wide smile as she noticed that his pen wasn’t moving as she spoke.
The doorbell rang. I threw one last glance at the TV screen – the Broncos were down by three.
I reluctantly opened the door, stoic smile firmly set. Her sweats and baggy t-shirt belied the plans we had made.
“Aren’t we going to the theater?” I asked, confused.
“What, and miss the Superbowl?”
“But you don’t even like -”
“Relax,” she said, pushing past me into the room. “We can do the theater some other time. What’s the score?”
As we rushed out the door I nearly flattened my youngest as he stood rooted to the sidewalk.
Still he stood, mouth agape.
“Let’s go. What are you doing? We’re late for dinner.”
I followed his gaze to the west and my mouth fell open. I was accosted by color. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until I heard my husband behind me. “Julie? What are you doing? Let’s go.”
Adams stepped out of the darkness and into a world lit by a dying sun. Instinctively he reached for his camera but then froze. Something was different. This spectacle was for feeling, not framing. This was nature’s coming attraction, her apology for hurricanes and tornadoes, her foray deep into the soul with sensations more commutative than words. Adams felt a kinship with the poet who once said “a poem should not mean, but be.”
Only one vote per person!
Voting will close TUESDAY NIGHT, 11:59 PM ET