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".
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
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
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.
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
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
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 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:
Reading fantasy again, I've started thinking about how odd it is how in books like that, the non-human races invariably scoff at human frailty and vulnerability, even those that they'll call friends. Like that's mean?? Why would you be a dick to your friend who you know is not capable of as much as you are, and it's not their fault they were born like that. That's mean.
Like consider the opposite: Characters of non-human races treating their human companions like frail little old dogs. Worrying about small wounds being fatal - humans die of small injuries all the time - or being surprised that humans can actually eat salt, even if they can't stomach other spicy rocks. Being amazed that a human friend they haven't seen in 10 years still looks so young, they've hardly aged at all! And when the human tries to explain that they weren't going to just unexpectedly shrivel into a raisin in 10 years, the longer-lifespan friend dismisses this like no, he's seen it happen, you don't see a human for 10 or 20 years and they've shriveled in a blink.
Elves arguing with each other like "you can't take her out there, she will die!" and when the human gets there to ask what they're talking about, they explain to her that the journey will take them through a passage where it's going to be sunny out there. Humans burn in the sun. And she will have to clarify that no, actually, she'll be fine. They fight her about it, until she manages to convince them that it's not like vampires - humans only burn a little bit in the sun, not all the way through. She'll be fine if she just wears a hat.
Meanwhile dwarves are reluctant to allow humans in their mines and cities, not just out of being secretive, but because they know that you cannot bring humans underground, they will go insane if they go too long without seeing the sun. Nobody is entirely sure how long that is, but the general consensus is three days. One time a human tries to explain their dwarf companion that this is not true, there are humans that endure much longer darkness than that. As a matter of fact, in the furthest habited corners of the lands of the Northmen, the winter sun barely rises at all. Humans can survive three weeks of darkness, and not just once, but every single year.
"Then how do they sane?" Asks the dwarf, and just as he does, the conversation gets interrupted by the northland human, who had been eavesdropping, and turns to look at them with an unnerving glint in her colourless grey eyes, grinning while saying
"That's the neat part, we don't."
Rain: cleansing, sadness, renewal, obstacles
Sunshine: happiness, hope, clarity, energy
Storms: conflict, turmoil, dramatic change
Snow: purity, stillness, coldness, isolation
Fog: confusion, mystery, uncertainty
Wind: change, freedom, unrest, communication
Eagle: freedom, vision, strength, courage
Lion: bravery, power, leadership, pride
Dove: peace, love, innocence, spirituality
Wolf: loyalty, cunning, survival, community
Snake: transformation, danger, temptation, wisdom
Butterfly: transformation, beauty, impermanence
Rose: love, beauty, passion, secrecy
Oak Tree: strength, endurance, wisdom
Willow Tree: sadness, flexibility, resilience
Lotus Flower: purity, enlightenment, rebirth
Ivy: friendship, fidelity, eternity
Cactus: endurance, protection, warmth
Mirror: self-reflection, truth, illusion
Key: opportunity, secrets, freedom
Bridge: connection, transition, overcoming obstacles
Candle: hope, spirituality, life, guidance
Clock: time, mortality, urgency
Mask: disguise, deception, concealment
One: beginnings, unity, individuality
Two: partnership, balance, duality
Three: creativity, growth, completeness
Four: stability, order, foundation
Five: change, adventure, unpredictability
Seven: mystery, spirituality, luck
Spring: renewal, birth, growth, hope
Summer: vitality, abundance, joy, freedom
Autumn: change, maturity, decline, reflection
Winter: death, stillness, introspection, endurance
Light: knowledge, purity, safety, enlightenment
Darkness: ignorance, evil, mystery, fear
Shadow: the unconscious, secrets, mystery
Twilight: ambiguity, transition, mystery
Fire: passion, destruction, energy, transformation
Water: emotion, intuition, life, change
Earth: stability, grounding, fertility, growth
Air: intellect, communication, freedom, change
umm do you have any good gateway books into second wave feminism 😓
So if you want to read some of the defining books of the era I'd say
Sexual Politics, Kate Millett
Ob/Gyn, Mary Daly
Dialectics of Sex, Shulamith Firestone
Intercourse; Right-Wing Women; Woman Hating; Pornography; all four by Andrea Dworkin
Against Our Will, Susan Brownmiller
Ain't I a Woman, bell hooks
Sister Outsider, Audre Lorde
I haven't read it but I've also seen The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer recommended a lot.
These are all good starts for second-wave feminism imo. upon reading them you'll also find some recommendations to other books as second-wave feminists referenced each other pretty often.
I would also advise reading history books written about the second-wave on the side. For example, Jewish Radical Feminism by Joyce Antler shades some light on Firestone's, Brownmiller's and Dworkin's life and political perspectives that helps put their work in context. Another really good one is Battling Pornography by Carolyn Bronstein, you can read this in a series with Pornography by Andrea Dworkin and Against Our Will by Susan Brownmiller. And then you also have The Trouble Between Us by Winifred Breines, about the tensions between white and black, straight and lesbian, upper and lower class second wave feminists. Also a very interesting read that puts some works in context and still has strong relevance nowadays
(For the emotionally repressed, the quiet imploders, the “I’m fine” liars.)
✧ Cancels plans they were excited for.
✧ Sleeps too much—or barely at all.
✧ Snaps at tiny things, then immediately regrets it.
✧ Can’t stand silence, suddenly always has noise on.
✧ Dresses in oversized clothes to hide their body.
✧ Laughs too loudly. Smiles too tightly.
✧ Picks at their nails, lips, or skin.
✧ Constantly checks their phone, even though no one is texting.
✧ Stops answering messages altogether.
✧ Forgets to eat—or pretends they already did.
✧ Eyes scan the room like they’re waiting for something bad.
✧ Overcommits. Can’t say no. Burns out quietly.
✧ Stops doing the things they love “just because.”
✧ Apologizes too often.
✧ Avoids mirrors.
✧ Can’t sit still—but won’t go outside.
✧ Says “I’m tired” instead of “I’m hurting.”
✧ Tries to clean everything when their life feels out of control.
✧ Uses sarcasm as armor.
✧ Hugs people just a second too long—and then acts like nothing happened.
Stubbornness, Unyielding in one's own views, even when wrong.
Impatience, Difficulty waiting for long-term results.
Self-doubt, Constant uncertainty despite evident abilities.
Quick temper, Excessive reactions to provocations.
Selfishness, Prioritizing one's own needs over others'.
Arrogance, Overestimating one's own abilities.
Trust issues, Difficulty trusting others.
Perfectionism, Setting unreachable high standards.
Fear of change, Avoiding changes.
Haunted by the past, Old mistakes or traumas influencing the present.
Jealousy, Envious of others' successes.
Laziness, Hesitant to exert effort.
Vindictiveness, Strong desire for revenge.
Prejudice, Unfair biases against others.
Shyness, Excessive timidity.
Indecisiveness, Difficulty making decisions.
Vulnerability, Overly sensitive to criticism.
Greed, Strong desire for more (money, power, etc.).
Dishonesty, Tendency to distort the truth.
Recklessness, Ignoring the consequences of one's actions.
Cynicism, Negative attitude and distrust.
Cowardice, Lack of courage in critical moments.
Hotheadedness, Quick, often thoughtless reactions.
Contentiousness, Tendency to provoke conflicts.
Forgetfulness, Difficulty remembering important details.
Kleptomania, Compulsion to steal things.
Hypochondria, Excessive concern about one's health.
Pessimism, Expecting the worst in every situation.
Narcissism, Excessive self-love.
Control freak, Inability to let go or trust others.
Tactlessness, Inability to address sensitive topics sensitively.
Hopelessness, Feeling that nothing will get better.
Dogmatism, Rigidity in one's own beliefs.
Unreliability, Inability to keep promises.
Closed-offness, Difficulty expressing emotions.
Impulsiveness, Acting without thinking.
Wounded pride, Overly sensitive to criticism of oneself.
Isolation, Tendency to withdraw from others.
academy
adventurer's guild
alchemist
apiary
apothecary
aquarium
armory
art gallery
bakery
bank
barber
barracks
bathhouse
blacksmith
boathouse
book store
bookbinder
botanical garden
brothel
butcher
carpenter
cartographer
casino
castle
cobbler
coffee shop
council chamber
court house
crypt for the noble family
dentist
distillery
docks
dovecot
dyer
embassy
farmer's market
fighting pit
fishmonger
fortune teller
gallows
gatehouse
general store
graveyard
greenhouses
guard post
guildhall
gymnasium
haberdashery
haunted house
hedge maze
herbalist
hospice
hospital
house for sale
inn
jail
jeweller
kindergarten
leatherworker
library
locksmith
mail courier
manor house
market
mayor's house
monastery
morgue
museum
music shop
observatory
orchard
orphanage
outhouse
paper maker
pawnshop
pet shop
potion shop
potter
printmaker
quest board
residence
restricted zone
sawmill
school
scribe
sewer entrance
sheriff's office
shrine
silversmith
spa
speakeasy
spice merchant
sports stadium
stables
street market
tailor
tannery
tavern
tax collector
tea house
temple
textile shop
theatre
thieves guild
thrift store
tinker's workshop
town crier post
town square
townhall
toy store
trinket shop
warehouse
watchtower
water mill
weaver
well
windmill
wishing well
wizard tower
Tender, Subtle Ways to Show a Character Cares
For the characters who will literally die before saying it out loud, but their body and habits scream devotion.
Letting them walk on the inside of the sidewalk
Memorizing their coffee order
Keeping extra gloves/scarves/snacks just in case they forget theirs
Texting: “Are you home safe?” instead of “I miss you”
Tucking their hair tag in
Offering the last bite, even if they really wanted it
Taking mental notes on what makes them nervous or happy
Saying “Call me if you need anything” and meaning it
Sitting close enough that their shoulders brush
Keeping an umbrella in their bag. Just. In. Case.
Being the first to notice when something’s off
Defending them behind their back
Refusing to let them feel dumb, even for a second
Remembering little details from a single offhand comment
Turning down the music when they walk in without asking
by Writerthreads on Instagram
A common problem writers face is "white room syndrome"—when scenes feel like they’re happening in an empty white room. To avoid this, it's important to describe settings in a way that makes them feel real and alive, without overloading readers with too much detail. Here are a few tips below to help!
You don’t need to describe everything in the scene—just pick a couple of specific, memorable details to bring the setting to life. Maybe it’s the creaky floorboards in an old house, the musty smell of a forgotten attic, or the soft hum of a refrigerator in a small kitchen. These little details help anchor the scene and give readers something to picture, without dragging the action with heaps of descriptions.
Instead of just focusing on what characters can see, try to incorporate all five senses—what do they hear, smell, feel, or even taste? Describe the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, or the damp chill of a foggy morning. This adds a lot of depth and make the location feel more real and imaginable.
Have characters interact with the environment. How do your characters move through the space? Are they brushing their hands over a dusty bookshelf, shuffling through fallen leaves, or squeezing through a crowded subway car? Instead of dumping a paragraph of description, mix it in with the action or dialogue.
Sometimes, the setting can do more than just provide a backdrop—it can reinforce the mood of a scene or even reflect a theme in the story. A stormy night might enhance tension, while a warm, sunny day might highlight a moment of peace. The environment can add an extra layer to what’s happening symbolically.
The bookstore was tucked between two brick buildings, its faded sign creaking with every gust of wind. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of worn paper and dust, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee from a corner café down the street. The wooden floorboards groaned as Ella wandered between the shelves, her fingertips brushing the spines of forgotten novels. Somewhere in the back, the soft sound of jazz crackled from an ancient radio.
Hope these tips help in your writing!
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