Why It Matters

When I attended art school a thousand years ago (“Hell no I don’t want to take computer graphics. What does that have to do with art?”), one of my illustration professors was legendary for his ambiguous feedback. “It needs more…” and then he’d whistle or click his tongue or make a whooshing sound, as if my 19 year-old brain could somehow translate this into something actionable.

The corollary to this in the writing world is “show don’t tell,” the old saw that creative writing teachers cite with reverence usually revised for holy scripture, and frankly for beginning writers this advice is just about as cryptic as an ancient parable. How am I supposed to “show” in a non-visual medium? The resulting confusion often leads to overly descriptive paragraphs detailing much but saying much of nothing. So how are you supposed to pull off this magic track of showing the reader without telling the reader? Well, for starters how about serving your characters a cup of coffee?

The jetsam floating around your characters should reveal something about them–their personalities, moods, ages, locations, tastes. As a writer you can say a lot with something as seemingly insignificant as a pocket knife. Think for a minute about who you know who carries a knife. Try to remember the style of knife, whether he (because it’s probably a he) carries it in his pocket or on his belt, how he uses it (opening packages, cleaning fingernails, etc.) Write those details down and you’ve shown something about that person’s character without ever saying “Bob was [blank].”

Beverages are a wealth of “shown” information. Consciously or not, we relate drinks to age, maturity, socioeconomic class, and even personality. A child drinking coffee seems strange, for example, as does an adult ordering a glass of milk unless the customer is elderly. Old people are allowed to drink milk for some reason, while Timothee Chalamet holding a frosty glass of two percent would at the very least be a bit jarring.

Coke and Pepsi are neutral, for the most part, but babies and toddlers with fizzy drinks imply something about their parents: neglect, poverty, youth,  What specifically the author is showing depends upon the greater context of the story, but fill a baby bottle with soda pop and you’re revealing character without ever telling, i.e., making a blatant comment about Stevie’s mother.

Orange soda seems immature, doesn’t it? Imagine the President of the United States sipping an Orange Crush. Grown, responsible people don’t drink bright orange (or blue, or purple) soda pop. Root Beer is kid stuff, too, likely because the name connotes a non-alcoholic alternative. Dr. Pepper and Seven-Up/Sprite are age neutral provided the names bear no modifiers, i.e., “I’ll have a Sprite” doesn’t signal much to your reader beyond “this character drinks Sprite,” but “I’ll have an Aruba Jam Sprite Remix” sounds ridiculous coming out of an adult’s mouth. That doesn’t mean your protagonist shouldn’t enjoy an ice cold Aruba Jam Sprite Remix, but as that person’s creator you’re making a conscious choice when you stick that can in his or her hand. You’re showing us something more than a beverage choice–you’re showing us personality.

Mountain Dew of any variety skews toward maybe ages 12 through 35, but the older the drinker the more immature a Mountain Dew seems. Imagine, for example, a couple seated at a nice restaurant, a white tablecloth kind of place. They are arguing in agitated whispers about who gets what in their pending divorce. The waiter interrups and asks for their drink orders. “Just a water,” she says. “Do you have Baja Blast Mountain Dew?” he asks. One little piece of business–a drink order–and we know (or at least we think we know) something about why this marriage is in trouble.

Speaking of water: Still water is age neutral, carbonated water is more middle-aged. A child asking for a club soda seems incongruous. Oddly, even today when bottled water is ubiquitous, requesting specific brands signals social class, regardless of whether that class has been achieved or remains aspirational for the character. “Just water” and “Do you have VOSS?” play very differently.

“Aspirational” is a key concept here, too. Energy drinks belong in the hands of young adults and those who wish to signal their identification with young adulthood. This means that a middle-aged character drinking a Monster is revealing (“showing”) the same desire as a 12 year-old chugging a Red Bull: I want to think (or I want people to think) that I’m older/younger than I really am.

Tea correlates less with age and more with social class, but that being said an old lady sipping a cuppa doesn’t register as unusual while a child asking for English Breakfast with a slice of lemon says something about the kid. Sweet tea will always convey southernness, either current (“this story is set in the south”) or past (“this character in this New York City story is a southern transplant”). Hot tea for whatever reason reads as cultured while iced tea reads as common: “Sully wiped the dirt and sweat from his face and took a big gulp of iced tea,” or “Professor Jenkins sipped from his tea cup.” Switching these two characters’ beverages would be more interesting, but as their creator you need a better justification than that. What would Sully sipping hot tea tell your readers about Sully?

And speaking of Big Gulps: Beverage size connotes class, too, or if not class something–taste, manners. A character drinking from a 12-ounce glass Coke bottle reads as having a personality that differs from his friend who drags aroud a 64-ounce Coke jug by its molded plastic handle, particularly if words like “chug,” “gulp,” or “bucket” appear on the jug’s side. Two guys drinking the same beverage, but their respective containers establish distinct personalities.

Reusable containers versus disposable containers like plastic or styrofoam cups reveal character, too. “Linda was environmentally conscious” is telling; “Linda handed her stainless steel travel mug to the barrista” is showing.

Alcoholic beverages are their own universe. The maturity of the drinkers often correlates with the absurdity of the order. Jell-O shots, Kamikazes, Jaeger shots, and Screaming Orgasms are the domain of younger drinkers. An elderly man ordering a Fuzzy Navel or a Sex On the Beach is probably the same arrested adolescent who carries around a Monster at the gym.

Beer as a category has long lost its working class connotation, but specific brands imply class distinction. Big brewery domestics–Budweiser, Coors, Michelob, Miller–read either as young or working class, probably due to both their ubiquity and affordability. They are gas station beers. Mexican beers–Corona, Tecate, Dos Equis, Negra Modelo–convey a sort of solid middle class, a “we’re not poor but we’re not showy” barbecue at the Andersons’ new-to-them home in Rio Rancho Estates. Or they signal that the character is eating at a Mexican Restaurant. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, as Freud famously said.

Craft beer drinkers range from middle class to tasteful to hipster to ostentatious. “What’s on tap” is a more thoughtful question than “you got Coors Light” and it provides space for you as a writer to reveal more about your character. For example, I always ask what’s on tap and local. If you’re feeling generous you might infer from that question that I’m the kind of guy who values a unique, more personalized experience. If you’re feeling less generous you may conclude that I’m a snob. Either might be true, by the way. You’ll need to write more of me in order to determine who I am. 

Old-timey drink orders belong either in old, pickled hands or young, hipster hands. Gin and tonic, Scotch and soda, Rob Roy, martini, Manhattan, side car, Seven and Seven: One of these has either been the character’s order for decades, or he’s a vest-wearing twenty-something with an overly groomed beard.

“Girl drinks,” concoctions usually comprised of rum or vodka mixed with fruit juice and garnished with chunks of fruit, crazy straws, paper umbrellas, or other bric a brac, are tired cliches but they’re also the alcoholic corollaries to Mountain Dew and Big Gulps. Maturity and class are revealed when one of these abominations is stuck in a character’s hand, especially when served in novelty souvenir glasses. Picture the iconic Red Lobster lighthouse glass, for example, or the yard long frozen margaritas that tourists drag around Las Vegas. But cliche though they may be fruity drinks cling tenaciously to their gender identity: “Jameson rocks,” Dave said. John’s eyes danced over the menu. “Is the Captain Bahama Mama frozen like an Icee?” he asked. Is it fair that whiskey implies masculinity while a fishbowl full of blue fluid doesn’t? Absolutely not, but the contrast provides another “show” tool for you to use if you choose.

Wine is its own world of lazy cliches: rappers ordering bottles of Dom Perignon in VIP rooms, wealthy diners ordering a specific year’s Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the long suffering suburban mom with her box of Franzia. Wine is such an overused means to reveal character that I recommend avoiding serving it to your characters. On the other hand, the fact that they’re so common is what makes cliches useful. They’re like salt, though: Used sparingly they enhance flavor, but use too much and you’ll spoil the dish.

So there you go, some food–or in this case drink–for thought regarding showing rather than telling. Introducing a tasty beverage won’t solve all of your story problems, but it will give your writing a little bit of (whistle, tongue click, whooshing sound). I wonder whatever happened to that illustration professor….