One of the most frequently cited rules in fiction writing is “Show, don’t tell.” It basically instructs the author not to explicitly narrate, but to help create a more vivid scene in the reader’s mind by relying on the descriptions of setting, actions, sensory details, character feelings, etc. 

This is an example of telling:

(1) “The man waited nervously at the bar.”

The adverb nervously is the offender here; it qualifies a generic verb, and hints that the scene could be rendered with more pizzazz. 

The following would be an example of showing, using the same scene as in (1) above: 

(2) “The man hunched over the bar, his drink untouched, his forehead sweaty. He tapped his fingers on the sticky wooden surface, stopping only to push up his sleeve and check the time.”

This example is perhaps too wordy and perhaps trying too hard, but you can definitely tell that the man is nervous without me saying that he is nervous or that he is waiting nervously. You can tell he is nervous because he’s sweating, he’s fidgeting, and he’s ignoring his drink, and you can tell that he is waiting because he’s frequently checking the time. Perhaps any one of these above three clauses would be a reliable and widely accepted marker of nervousness? Piling all of them surely signals the author’s wanton disregard for the economy of language, or perhaps a desire to hammer home the fact that the man is really truly nervous. In any case, the nervousness likely didn’t escape any reader who read the second sentence. 

Now, let’s see what happens if I replace the second sentence with the following one: 

(3) “The man hunched over the bar, tapping his fingers on the sticky wooden surface.”

Are you still certain that he’s nervous? Maybe he’s fuming with rage. Maybe whoever he’s waiting for is late. Maybe he’s got ADHD and forgot his fidget spinner or stress ball and is now annoying everyone by tapping on the bar. Most people would still likely assume he’s nervous, but it’s a bit less clear than in (2). 

How about this?

(4) “The man hunched over the bar, his drink untouched.”

Is he still definitely nervous? Maybe he’s a recovering alcoholic battling his demons. Maybe he realized the drink he ordered sucked. Maybe he just has a lot on his mind. In any case, it’s definitely not clear that I am hinting at him being nervous.  

And how about this?

(5) “The man hunched over the bar, his forehead sweaty.”

Now it’s even less clear that the man is nervous. Maybe he stopped at the bar on his way back from the gym. Maybe it’s 90 degrees outside. Maybe the bar owner doesn’t believe in AC. Maybe he is sick with a fever. There are many reasons why someone would be sweaty in a bar, and nervousness likely isn’t the first thing on the reader’s mind. 

The point I am trying to make is that a common failure mode of the “Show, don’t tell” mantra is that what the author thinks they’re showing is actually not what they are showing in the eyes of the reader. Sometimes it’s because the author is trying to be too subtle in their attempts at showing and/or the tool the author is using to obliquely show something is not specific enough to what they are trying to show, so they end up missing the mark. (The tool might be hinting at a bunch of different issues, some of which might be within a geographical, historical, gender, racial, or cultural niche. Or perhaps the character has an idiosyncrasy that would indicate a certain behavior for them but not most other people, and this idiosyncrasy would need a very bright lantern hung on it somewhere in the narrative in order for this type of showing to work.) In the end, a weak or diffuse attempt at showing hurts and confuses more than an inelegant instance of direct telling. (Another failure mode of the “Show, don’t tell” mantra is the author showing every single thing, weighing the narrative down. Sometimes all you need to do is tell.  Sometimes what you need is to say “Barry got up and opened the door” and then we can all move on to admiring the monster on the other side.) 

Now, why am I writing about all this on Xykademiqz? Because the failure to clearly communicate complex implications is a common issue in technical writing, especially persuasive technical writing, such as in grant proposals. I frequently see people making weak or diffuse inferences in their proposals that might only be picked up by (a) a very caffeinated reviewer who is (b) extremely narrowly in the PI’s area and (c) is reading the proposal very deeply, much more deeply than how reviewers typically read proposals.

Subtlety is the enemy of proposal writing. 

You must spell it out for the reviewers why A and B together mean that C will happen. You ask, “But isn’t it obvious?” Perhaps, but say it anyway. You should err on the side of obviousness and redundancy. Bludgeon that reader with the causal links between the elements underpinning your idea. Hammer home—in no uncertain terms, repeatedly—why what you have done plus what is known from the work of others plus what you believe will be shown true in the proposed work will lead to a major shift in knowledge. Do not just drop G, O, L, and D and expect a marginally interested, stressed, would-rather-be-doing-anything-else-in-the-world-than-reading-your-proposal-now reviewer to have to figure out that you were actually planning to spell GOLD. Tell the reviewer that the implication is GOLD! Make it explicit even if you think it was already painfully obvious! Have it be as obvious as the nervousness of that poor man waiting at the bar in sentence (2), tapping and sweating and checking his time. That’s the guy whom the bartended comes to ask if everything is OK, which kicks off the narrative. The guys in sentences (3)–(5) confuse the bartender,  so he leaves them alone until they finish their drinks. Don’t make your reviewer confused. Help the reviewer help you.