When Should You Describe A Character’s Appearance? (And When You Really, Really Shouldn’t)

How to Write a Character Who Feels Like Throwing Up

When fear, dread, or guilt gets sickening—literally—your character is consumed with a gut-clenching feeling that something is very, very wrong. Here's how to write that emotion using more than the classic "bile rose to the back of their throat".

Start with the Stomach

This isn’t just about discomfort. It’s about a complete rebellion happening inside their body.

Their stomach twists like a knot that keeps pulling tighter

A cold sweat beads on their neck, their palms, their spine

Their insides feel sludgy, like everything they’ve eaten is suddenly unwelcome

They double over, not from pain, but because sitting still feels impossible

Add Sensory Overload

Vomiting isn’t just a stomach reaction—it’s the whole body.

Their mouth goes dry, and then too wet

Their jaw tightens, trying to contain it

A sudden heat blooms in their chest and face, overwhelming

The back of their throat burns—not bile, but the threat of it

Breathing becomes a conscious effort: in, out, shallow, sharp

Emotional Triggers

Nausea doesn’t always need a physical cause. Tie it to emotion for more impact:

Fear: The kind that’s silent and wide-eyed. They’re frozen, too sick to speak.

Guilt: Their hands are cold, but their face is flushed. Every memory plays like a film reel behind their eyes.

Shock: Something just snapped inside. Their body registered it before their brain did.

Ground It in Action

Don’t just describe the nausea—show them reacting to it.

They press a fist to their mouth, pretending it’s a cough

Their knees weaken, and they lean on a wall, pretending it’s just fatigue

They excuse themselves quietly, then collapse in a bathroom stall

They swallow, again and again, like that’ll keep everything down

Let the Consequences Linger

Even if they don’t actually throw up, the aftermath sticks.

A sour taste that won’t leave their mouth.

A pulsing headache

A body that feels hollowed out, shaky, untrustworthy

The shame of nearly losing control in front of someone else

Let Them Be Human

A character feeling like vomiting is vulnerable. It's real. It’s raw. It means they’re overwhelmed in a way they can’t hide. And that makes them relatable. You don’t need melodrama—you need truth. Capture that moment where the world spins, and they don’t know if it’s panic or flu or fear, but all they want is to get out of their own body for a second.

Don't just write the bile. Write the breakdown.

How do I write a girldad? Because I saw a severe lack of girldad prompts in your writing prompts.

How to write a girldad

To create a multidimensional girldad character there are some things to consider:

Make the character show love and attention to his daughter(s).

He is proud of everything his daughters do and encourage them to achieve their dreams and simply do what they want to do.

Listening to his daughters concerns, and giving advice if it is wanted.

Being protective of his daughters, but knowing that they also need to respect their independence and the decisions they make.

Being involved in their lives, knowing who their friends are and how they are doing in school and in sports.

Treating other women in his life with respect, showing his daughters the right standard.

That the daughters are getting older may be difficult for the girldad, but he copes and learns to adapt to their new lives.

How to show their good relationship:

Including light-hearted and playful conversations to show their close bond.

Giving them sincere and loving exchanges.

Showing everyday interactions, like discussing school, friends, or plans for the weekend.

Having him give attention and affection to his daughters even in public.

Showing that the daughter's female friends also feel comfortable with the dad.

Having them share a hobby, especially one that is considered more feminine.

More: Masterpost: How to write a story

I hope you have fun with this! I'm thinking about making a prompt list for a girldad, so maybe there is something coming in the future.

- Jana

I hate the “Thoreau’s mom did his laundry” criticism so much, it drives me crazy.

Henry Thoreau did not go to Walden Pond because he thought it would be a fun adventure. He went into the woods because he was deeply depressed and burnt out. He was running from the horror of his brother and best friend recently dying in his arms, and the haunting memory of causing the Fairhaven Bay fire. His friend Ellery Channing literally gave him the ultimatum of either taking some time off to write and think, or else be institutionalized.

I think Thoreau’s mother saw her depressed son choosing to retreat into a small cabin in the woods, and was worried about him. Of course she did his laundry - just as Ralph Waldo Emerson probably brought him firewood and bread. These were not chores of obligation to support a “great” man, but services of love to help their deeply depressed 28yo son and friend.

And if you ask me, there’s a lesson in that - to “suck out the marrow of life” and “live deliberately,” one must also accept help offered from the people in your life who love you. There is no true transcendentalism or individualism without love and friendship behind it.

Ursula K. Le Guin on How to Become a Writer.

How do you become a writer? Answer: you write.

It’s amazing how much resentment and disgust and evasion this answer can arouse. Even among writers, believe me. It is one of those Horrible Truths one would rather not face.

The most frequent evasive tactic is for the would-be writer to say, But before I have anything to say, I must get experience.

Well, yes; if you want to be a journalist. But I don’t know anything about journalism, I’m talking about fiction. And of course fiction is made out of experience, your whole life from infancy on, everything you’ve thought and done and seen and read and dreamed. But experience isn’t something you go and get—it’s a gift, and the only prerequisite for receiving it is that you be open to it. A closed soul can have the most immense adventures, go through a civil war or a trip to the moon, and have nothing to show for all that “experience”; whereas the open soul can do wonders with nothing. I invite you to meditate on a pair of sisters. Emily and Charlotte. Their life experience was an isolated vicarage in a small, dreary English village, a couple of bad years at a girls’ school, another year or two in Brussels, which is surely the dullest city in all Europe, and a lot of housework. Out of that seething mass of raw, vital, brutal, gutsy Experience they made two of the greatest novels ever written: Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights.

Now, of course they were writing from experience; writing about what they knew, which is what people always tell you to do; but what was their experience? What was it they knew? Very little about “life.” They knew their own souls, they knew their own minds and hearts; and it was not a knowledge lightly or easily gained. From the time they were seven or eight years old, they wrote, and thought, and learned the landscape of their own being, and how to describe it. They wrote with the imagination, which is the tool of the farmer, the plow you plow your own soul with. They wrote from inside, from as deep inside as they could get by using all their strength and courage and intelligence. And that is where books come from. The novelist writes from inside.

I’m rather sensitive on this point, because I write science fiction, or fantasy, or about imaginary countries, mostly—stuff that, by definition, involves times, places, events that I could not possibly experience in my own life. So when I was young and would submit one of these things about space voyages to Orion or dragons or something, I was told, at extremely regular intervals, “You should try to write about things you know about.” And I would say, But I do; I know about Orion, and dragons, and imaginary countries. Who do you think knows about my own imaginary countries, if I don’t?

But they didn’t listen, because they don’t understand, they have it all backward. They think an artist is like a roll of photographic film, you expose it and develop it and there is a reproduction of Reality in two dimensions. But that’s all wrong, and if any artist tells you, “I am a camera,” or “I am a mirror,” distrust them instantly, they’re fooling you, pulling a fast one. Artists are people who are not at all interested in the facts—only in the truth. You get the facts from outside. The truth you get from inside.

OK, how do you go about getting at that truth? You want to tell the truth. You want to be a writer. So what do you do?

You write.

Honestly, why do people ask that question? Does anybody ever come up to a musician and say, Tell me, tell me—how should I become a tuba player? No! It’s too obvious. If you want to be a tuba player you get a tuba, and some tuba music. And you ask the neighbors to move away or put cotton in their ears. And probably you get a tuba teacher, because there are quite a lot of objective rules and techniques both to written music and to tuba performance. And then you sit down and you play the tuba, every day, every week, every month, year after year, until you are good at playing the tuba; until you can—if you desire—play the truth on the tuba.

It is exactly the same with writing. You sit down and you do it, and you do it, and you do it, until you have learned how to do it.

Of course, there are differences. Writing makes no noise, except groans, and it can be done anywhere, and it is done alone.

It is the experience or premonition of that loneliness, perhaps, that drives a lot of young writers into this search for rules. I envy musicians very much, myself. They get to play together, their art is largely communal; and there are rules to it, an accepted body of axioms and techniques, which can be put into words or at least demonstrated, and so taught. Writing cannot be shared, nor can it be taught as a technique, except on the most superficial level. All a writer’s real learning is done alone, thinking, reading other people’s books, or writing—practicing. A really good writing class or workshop can give us some shadow of what musicians have all the time—the excitement of a group working together, so that each member outdoes himself—but what comes out of that is not a collaboration, a joint accomplishment, like a string quartet or a symphony performance, but a lot of totally separate, isolated works, expressions of individual souls. And therefore there are no rules, except those each individual makes up.

I know. There are lots of rules. You find them in the books about The Craft of Fiction and The Art of the Short Story and so on. I know some of them. One of them says: Never begin a story with dialogue! People won’t read it; here is somebody talking and they don’t know who and so they don’t care, so—Never begin a story with dialogue.

Well, there is a story I know, it begins like this:

“Eh bien, mon prince! so Genoa and Lucca are now no more than private estates of the Bonaparte family!”

It’s not only a dialogue opening, the first four words are in French, and it’s not even a French novel. What a horrible way to begin a book! The title of the book is War and Peace.

There’s another Rule I know: introduce all the main characters early in the book. That sounds perfectly sensible, mostly I suppose it is sensible, but it’s not a rule, or if it is somebody forgot to tell it to Charles Dickens. He didn’t get Sam Weller into The Pickwick Papers for ten chapters—that’s five months, since the book was coming out as a serial in installments.

Now, you can say, All right, so Tolstoy can break the rules, so Dickens can break the rules, but they’re geniuses; rules are made for geniuses to break, but for ordinary, talented, not-yet-professional writers to follow, as guidelines.

And I would accept this, but very very grudgingly, and with so many reservations that it amounts in the end to nonacceptance. Put it this way: if you feel you need rules and want rules, and you find a rule that appeals to you, or that works for you, then follow it. Use it. But if it doesn’t appeal to you or doesn’t work for you, then ignore it; in fact, if you want to and are able to, kick it in the teeth, break it, fold staple mutilate and destroy it.

See, the thing is, as a writer you are free. You are about the freest person that ever was. Your freedom is what you have bought with your solitude, your loneliness. You are in the country where you make up the rules, the laws. You are both dictator and obedient populace. It is a country nobody has ever explored before. It is up to you to make the maps, to build the cities. Nobody else in the world can do it, or ever could do it, or ever will be able to do it again.

Excerpted from THE LANGUAGE OF THE NIGHT by Ursula K. Le Guin. Copyright © 1989 by Ursula K. Le Guin.

I recommend Le Guin's book about writing, Steering the Craft:

How I improved my writing style... without actually writing.

Intro : It's just a clickbait title to talk about theory and side techniques - before actually practicing, of course.

LINGUISTIC ISN'T GRAMMAR - AND IT'S BETTER TO KNOW ABOUT BOTH. It's useful for writing impactful dialogue and giving your characters depth. Your characters' language should (ideally) take into account: their social position (rich or poor), the locality (local expressions?) and sometimes their age (different cultural references). And this is best transcribed with linguistic knowledge. In short: linguistics is descriptive, grammar is prescriptive.

The areas of linguistic analysis are syntax (rules governing the structure of sentences),  semantics (meaning),  morphology (structure of words), phonetics (speech sounds and equivalent gestures in sign languages), phonology (the abstract sound system of a particular language, and analogous systems of sign languages), and pragmatics (how the context of use contributes to meaning). (Linguistics, Wikipedia)

Literary theory isn't as boring as it sounds. Learn more about internal criteria of the text (figure of speech, style, aesthetic...) and external criteria of the text (the author's persona and responsability, the role of the reader and what is left to interpretation...). I refer you to the French Wikipedia page, which you can translate directly via your browser in case you need more information. (Make sure you translate the page not switch language, because the content isn't the same).

Listening to Youtube Video about the analysis of film sequences and/or scenario. Remember when I told you to read historical fiction to learn how to describe a castle properly ? Same vibe.

Novel adaptations of movies. = when the movie exists before the book, and not the other way around. e.g : The Shape of Water ; Pan's Labyrinth. In line with tip n°3, it allows us to see how emotions, scenes and descriptions have been translated into writing - and thus to better visualize concepts that may have been abstract.

Read books about authors' writing experiences. e.g : Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Everyone's different, but they can provide some insightful tips not only on the act of writing itself, but on the environment conducive to writing, planning… Comparing completely different authors' experience could also be fun (this video of King and Martin is actually one of my fav)

Ah and many thanks for your ❤ and reblogs on my latest post ! UwU

𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯

How a Character’s Anger Can Show Up Quietly

Anger doesn’t always slam doors. Sometimes it simmers. Sometimes it cuts.

╰ They go still. Not calm... still. Like something is pulling tight inside them.

╰ They smile, but their eyes? Cold. Flat. Done.

╰ Their voice gets quieter, not louder. Controlled. Measured. Weaponized.

╰ They ask questions they already know the answers to, just to watch someone squirm.

╰ Their words are clipped. Polite. But razor-sharp.

╰ They laugh once. Without humor. You know the one.

╰ They leave the room without explanation, and when they come back? Different energy. Ice where fire was.

How to Write Realistic Characters in Your Stories

Writing realistic characters can be challenging because there's a lot to consider. Even though I've touched on this subject before, it's a complex topic that requires vast knowledge to get it right. Here's a guide on what to consider when writing people in your stories:

1. Similarities to Real People: Just like in real life, your characters need to share traits with real people. This helps readers connect with your story and characters on a more personal level.

2. Negative Traits: It's important to explore your characters' negative traits to make them more believable. For example:

- People often think of themselves first because it's part of our DNA to protect and care for ourselves. Your characters should share these qualities.

- People pretend to be something they aren't or act differently in front of others due to fear of not being liked. This affects almost everyone at some point.

- People are easily distracted and often miss important lessons or moments that contribute to their growth.

- People are dishonest at times to protect themselves, making it hard to fully trust them.

3. Outside Influence: Your characters are also influenced by external factors, just like you are in real life. Consider these suggestions to help you along the way:

- People tell you what to think, feel, believe, and how to act. They often tell you that you're not good enough. These are common issues we go through as humans, making it important to your stories.

4. Realism vs. Idealism: While we sometimes want to write stories filled with fairy tales of a perfect world, sadly, that doesn't exist. There will always be someone who breaks your trust, and writing about this is important. You can take this information and practice cause, effect, and solutions to these situations to see what you come up with.

I hope this helps you on your writing journey. Happy writing!

10 Traits That Make a Character Secretly Dangerous

❥ Disarming Humor. They’re the life of the party. Everyone’s laughing. No one’s noticing how much they aren’tsaying.

❥ Laser-Sharp Observation. They see everything. Who’s nervous. Who’s lying. Who would be easiest to break. And they don’t miss.

❥ Unsettling Calm. Even in chaos, they stay still. Smiling. Thinking. Calculating.

❥ Weaponized Empathy. They know how to make people trust them. Because they know exactly what people want to hear.

❥ Compartmentalization. They can do something brutal, then eat lunch like nothing happened.

❥ Controlling Niceness. The kind of kindness that’s sharp-edged. You feel guilty for not loving them.

❥ Mirroring Behavior. They become whatever the person in front of them needs. It's not flattery. It’s survival—or manipulation.

❥ Selective Vulnerability. They know how to spill just enough pain to make you drop your guard.

❥ History of “Bad Luck”. Ex-friends, ex-lovers, ex-colleagues… they all left under “unfortunate” circumstances. But the pattern says otherwise.

❥ Unshakeable Confidence in Their Morality. They don’t think they’re the villain. That makes them scarier.