Well this is uncomfortable. Your eyes barreling along, expecting word after word, while my writer stands absently downstairs waiting for the ding from the microwave that will signal that his tea is ready. If this were a cartoon, oh how I wish it were for your sake, the page would remain blank as a pen leaned against the blankness signaling to you that there was nothing to see, but as you seem intent on having your eyes continue their journey from side to side and down the page you draw this out and force me to explain myself. Without the clacking of fingers on a keyboard I have nothing to show you, showing you is held in much higher esteem by my writer than telling. Obviously, there is no scene to speak of where you might glean a hint of the upcoming action nor can I offer an accent or telltale physical characteristic. I cannot even turn inward at the moment because my inwards remain empty. That much I can both show and tell. Given my empty state, the difference between show and tell seems as transparent as the similarities between truth and dare.
If you can be patient I have no doubt my writer will return, tea in hand, to the task at hand and no doubt entertain you with some triumph or tragedy thrust upon me. At this moment I can’t say I have a preference or even an understanding of the difference between them. I’m led to believe from the writer that without you identifying with some aspect of me that you won’t have much of an interest either.
Might I suggest, with no insult intended, that perhaps you’re still reading this for that very reason? Might my writer sit down to find you’ve already identified with the complete lack of me and he can continue with a captive audience?
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