Soooo Maybe An Oddly Specific Question. Could You Recommend Your Favorite Books About Politics In The

How to Write SIBLING Relationships

If you're looking to write a sibling relationship but don't fully understand how a sibling relationship actually works, this is for you! As someone who has a younger brother, here are some points you'll want to consider when writing siblings!

Oldest, Middle, and Youngest

First, let's talk about the three types of siblings and explore their general roles, expectations, and characterization within a family!

*Oldest*

Starting with the oldest child, oftentimes, the eldest child is expected to act as the most responsible and as the role model. This doesn't mean they will go out of their way to set an example, but typically, no matter their personality and relationship with their younger siblings, they will have an innate sense of duty and protectiveness over their siblings. They want their siblings to enter the right path.

As the role model, the oldest child normally feels the most stress and anxiety, yet they also try not to show it to avoid worry from others. They highly value independence.

*Middle*

I'm sure you've heard of the jokes that the middle child is invisible child, and while those jokes are often exaggerated, the truth isn't terribly far off.

Between the eldest and youngest child, the middle child has a more difficult time standing out, which may lead to more reckless behavior for attention. They are characterized as more free-spirited and might act as a mediator between the youngest and oldest.

They will likely be more responsible and experienced than the youngest but can act similarly to the youngest.

*Youngest*

The youngest child can look like many things. Sometimes, you'll see the youngest is the most spoiled because they're the parents' favorite, and sometimes they're ignored because they have the least experience. Despite that, they have their fair share of pressures and burdens because they are often expected to meet, if not surpass, the achievements of their older siblings.

The General Dynamic

A sibling relationship differs from a typical friendship. They WILL find each other more annoying, but that doesn't mean they can't get along.

Siblings are also more honest and nit-pickier with each other. For example, if a friend changes the radio without asking, the character might not think too much of it. However, if their brother changes the radio without asking, then the character will likely feel irritated and call them out for it.

And when I say honest, I don't mean that they're super honest with each other emotionally, because that's not always the case. When I mean honest, I mean they're rather honest with each other at a surface, verbal level. They hardly hesitate to say their thoughts and can be pushy about them.

They will have an opinion on everything.

Personalities

If you've ever had some friends that have siblings, I'm sure that you're aware sometimes siblings can be similar and sometimes they're total opposites.

However, this doesn't mean that a pair of "opposite" siblings are ying and yang. While they may seem visibly different, such as fashion sense, and whether they're an introvert or extrovert, there are still shared traits that they hold. This is especially true if they're biological siblings and/or raised in the same environment together.

They influence each other, so there's bound to be some similarities in personality or values no matter how distinct each one is.

Love, Even If Unseen

No matter what, siblings love each other. They might not say it, they might not express it, or they might show it in a toxic and unhealthy way, but there's always an underlying sense of familial love. These are the people that your character has (or was supposed to) grown up with, after all.

There's going to be attachment, they will defend each other, even if they claim to hate the other.

Parents

Okay guys, now let's move on to parents and how they might play a part in sibling relationships!

*Comparisons*

Regardless of whether you have a sibling or not, you've likely experienced what it feels like to be compared to someone else. I'm not saying people with siblings have it worse, but they do have a wider range of people to be compared with.

It's not uncommon for parents to compare their children to each other, and it's not uncommon either for a child to compare themselves to their siblings. Sometimes, outsiders and/or distant family members will also compare the siblings, causing feelings of inferiority and envy.

When siblings have a poor relationship, it can sometimes be because of the parents.

*Fighting and Arguments*

Siblings fight and argue a LOT. However, you'd be mistaken if you thought a parent resolves all of these fights.

The truth is, after a certain age is reached, parents won't step in or resolve a fight unless it's right in front of them. They expect their children to be mature enough to solve their issues out, and honestly? They were tired of breaking up conflicts years ago.

Bonus point: yes, siblings can fight often, but the quarrels are usually forgotten pretty quick too. I've had several fights with my brother in which we were back to normal literally a few hours later the spat. Will I remember it for the next year? Absolutely. But do I care anymore? Not really.

Conclusion

This post may not apply to all siblings--everyone has different types of relationships--but here are some good points to start at!

TL;DR: The eldest sibling has the most responsibility, the middle sibling is a blend between the oldest and youngest and often strives for attention, and while the youngest sibling may look like they have it the easiest, they have their pressures too. Sibling relationship does not mimic a friendship, and they will have similar traits despite distinct personalities. They love and care for each other, even if it doesn't look that way. Having siblings sets up for many comparisons between them, and parents won't always resolve sibling spats.

I'll likely release some posts detailing how to write specific sibling relationships, so let me know if you want to see one in particular! Thank you for making it here!

Happy writing~

3hks <3

the suffering never ends

Omg omg omg. It all makes so much more sense when you realise it's not social anxiety but a fear of being perceived.

Why do you feel more comfortable with a long coat and a mask as opposed to summer clothes?

Why do you DESPISE taking pictures? Especially if it's someone else and not you taking them.

Why do you feel like you have to stop doing whatever it was you were doing when someone passes by?

Why don't you want to tell anyone how leisurely you go about your day, taking a nap, going for a snack, sitting on your phone playing games etc. because you know they will comment on it and even though it's not negative or mockery it's still feels like you've been perceived?

Why can't you make eye contact? Why can you do it only if the other person is looking away but the second when they look at you you stop listening and when you're the one speaking you can't bear to look at them because you know their eyes are on you and they are perceiving you?

Why don't you want to dress excessively or wear nicer clothes? Because you will stand out

People mistake you for shy because you don't speak often, but it's really the fear of drawing attention to yourself more than it is the things you actually say, isn't it?

Why do you hate overpopulated areas even when no one is speaking? BUT you still feel more comfortable when more than one person is in the room (but not too many!) so that the burden of being perceived is directed on someone else and you can safely lay back just observing the scene.

It's all a defence mechanism

I once saw someone say

There are two kinds of writers

One's an architect

And the other's a gardener

The architect plans each careful window

While the gardener simply plants a seed and watches it grow

"Which one am I?" I wondered

Then I thought, I planned a house, but I plant seeds in the foundation

The vines grow

Through the windows

And the foundations are riddled with roots

I had a plan but lo behold

The tree that grows through the roof

Avoiding the “Mary Sue” trap while creating characters.

A “Mary Sue” is that charact. Perfect; bends the story to their will, faces no meaningful struggles, and often feels too idealized to be relatable. The thing I like most is when an author makes a character, a situation, a scene, realistic. I like heavy realism in my books. I know we read to escape reality, but there's a way to do that.

1. Give Them Flaws Not the checklist kind. Not "clumsy" or "bad at math" unless that genuinely bleeds into who they are and how they move through the world. I mean the kind of flaws that crack open relationships. That drive certain choices. That make you want to shake them. Flaws should cost them something. Otherwise, they’re decoration.

2. Let Them Fail Failure is the most human thing. It brings shame, doubt, growth, all the stuff that makes a character feel alive. Let them try, and stumble. Let them mess up something important. Let them hurt people and not know how to fix it. Failure opens narrative doors that perfection just slams shut.

3. Don’t Make Everyone Love Them If every side character is just there to admire your MC, you’re not writing a story—you’re writing propaganda. Let people mistrust them. Let some hate them. Not everyone sees the same version of a person. Maybe someone sees behind their act, maybe someone’s immune to their charm. That gives perspective.

4. Make Their Skills Believable A skill with no backstory is just plot armor. If they're good at something, show why. Time. Training. Failure. Maybe they’re not even the best—just someone who works harder than they should have to. That’s infinitely more compelling than someone who just is talented for no reason.

5. Avoid Overloading Them With Traits They don’t need to be smart, funny, hot, tragic, a prodigy, a rebel, and an empath who bakes when sad. Choose what matters. Strip it down to the few traits that define them, the ones they carry into every scene. Complexity is about layers, not a pile of labels.

6. Give Them Internal Conflict We all contradict ourselves. That’s the beauty of it. Your character should wrestle with decisions. Regret them. Say one thing and feel another. Inner conflict is what separates a walking trope from a person we believe in.

7. Let the Plot Push Back The world shouldn’t bend for your character. The plot should push them, break them, make them bleed for the win. Their goals should cost something. The story isn’t just their playground—it’s the pressure cooker where they get tested. If they’re never cornered, what’s the point?

8. Ensure They Don’t Eclipse the Entire Cast Other characters are not props. Give them wants, voices, limits. They don’t exist to spotlight the protagonist—they exist to breathe life into the story. And your MC is more interesting when they’re surrounded by people who push them, contradict them, challenge them.

9. Avoid Unrealistic Morality Nobody’s always right. And honestly, it’s annoying when they are. Let them justify things that aren’t justifiable. Let them fail to see another perspective. Let them believe they’re in the right—until they’re not. Give them a compass that doesn’t always point true north.

10. Make Them Struggle to Earn Trust Trust is a slow build. People remember hurt. They hesitate. Let your MC do the work—prove themselves, fail, rebuild. Trust earned over time is more satisfying than instant loyalty that comes out of nowhere.

I hate perfect characters. Especially when it’s pretend perfection. Like what do you mean he has abs when he has no time to workout? Like what do you mean she is so put together all the time? In this economy?

let's write something raw, something realistic.

Things Your Character Pretends to Be (But Isn’t, At Least Not Yet)

(Identity masks, coping roles, survival personas.)

The caretaker (but no one’s ever taken care of them).

The brave one (but they’re terrified all the time).

The flirt (because real intimacy is terrifying).

The funny one (because laughter hides the panic).

The overachiever (but they feel like a fraud).

The chill one (but they’re screaming inside).

The leader (but they never wanted the spotlight).

The rebel (but they just want to belong).

The calm one (but their thoughts race nonstop).

The loyal one (even when people don’t deserve it).

The loner (but they’re starving for connection).

The tough one (but they’ve never been allowed to cry).

The problem-solver (but can’t fix their own mess).

The grounded one (but they feel completely lost).

The logical one (because feeling has always gotten them hurt).

The “together” one (but they’re falling apart in secret).

The “nice” one (but they’re boiling with resentment).

The free spirit (but they crave structure).

The peacemaker (but they never say what they need).

The heartbreaker (but they’re terrified of being left first).

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.

In the past fifty years, fantasy’s greatest sin might be its creation of a bland, invariant, faux-Medieval European backdrop. The problem isn’t that every fantasy novel is set in the same place: pick a given book, and it probably deviates somehow. The problem is that the texture of this place gets everywhere.

What’s texture, specifically? Exactly what Elliot says: material culture. Social space. The textiles people use, the jobs they perform, the crops they harvest, the seasons they expect, even the way they construct their names. Fantasy writing doesn’t usually care much about these details, because it doesn’t usually care much about the little people – laborers, full-time mothers, sharecroppers, so on. (The last two books of Earthsea represent LeGuin’s remarkable attack on this tendency in her own writing.) So the fantasy writer defaults – fills in the tough details with the easiest available solution, and moves back to the world-saving, vengeance-seeking, intrigue-knotting narrative. Availability heuristics kick in, and we get another world of feudal serfs hunting deer and eating grains, of Western name constructions and Western social assumptions. (Husband and wife is not the universal historical norm for family structure, for instance.)

Defaulting is the root of a great many evils. Defaulting happens when we don’t think too much about something we write – a character description, a gender dynamic, a textile on display, the weave of the rug. Absent much thought, automaticity, the brain’s subsconscious autopilot, invokes the easiest available prototype – in the case of a gender dynamic, dad will read the paper, and mom will cut the protagonist’s hair. Or, in the case of worldbuilding, we default to the bland fantasy backdrop we know, and thereby reinforce it. It’s not done out of malice, but it’s still done.

The only way to fight this is by thinking about the little stuff. So: I was quite wrong. You do need to worldbuild pretty hard. Worldbuild against the grain, and worldbuild to challenge. Think about the little stuff. You don’t need to position every rain shadow and align every tectonic plate before you start your short story. But you do need to build a base of historical information that disrupts and overturns your implicit assumptions about how societies ‘ordinarily’ work, what they ‘ordinarily’ eat, who they ‘ordinarily’ sleep with. Remember that your slice of life experience is deeply atypical and selective, filtered through a particular culture with particular norms. If you stick to your easy automatic tendencies, you’ll produce sexist, racist writing – because our culture still has sexist, racist tendencies, tendencies we internalize, tendencies we can now even measure and quantify in a laboratory. And you’ll produce narrow writing, writing that generalizes a particular historical moment, its flavors and tongues, to a fantasy world that should be much broader and more varied. Don’t assume that the world you see around you, its structures and systems, is inevitable.

We... need worldbuilding by Seth Dickinson

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:

Questions Your Character Is Too Afraid to Ask

(But desperately needs the answer to) Because these are the thoughts they won’t say out loud, but they shape everything they do.

If I stopped trying, would anyone notice?

Do they actually like me, or do I just make their life easier?

Am I hard to love?

What would they say about me if I left the room?

Would they stay if they saw the real me?

What if I’m only good at pretending to be good?

Was it actually love, or just obligation?

What happens if I fail again? What’s left of me then?

How long until they get tired of me?

What if I deserve the things I’m afraid of?

Am I healing or just hiding better?

Why do I feel more myself when I’m alone?

Do I want to be forgiven or just forget?

What if I never become the person they believe I am?

Am I still angry, or just numb?

Why can’t I let go of them, even after everything?

If they hurt me, and I stayed, did I hurt myself more?

Am I building a future, or just distracting myself from the past?

Is this what I want, or just what I’ve been told to want?

What if I was never meant to survive this, but I did anyway? Now what?