#write anything

Words To Use Instead of "Look"

Words Closest in Meaning (w diff connotations!):

stare

eye

study

behold

glimpse

peek

glance

notice

observe

inspect

regarding

view

review

look-see

get an eyeful

peer

give the eye

eyeball

size up

size up

check out

examine

contemplate

scan

recognize

sweep

once-over

judge

watch

glare

consider

spot

scrunitize

gaze

gander

ogle

yawp

Other (more fancy) words:

glimmer

sntach

zero in

take stock of

poke into

mope

glaze

grope

rummage

frisk

probe

rivet

distinguish

witness

explore

gloat

scowl

have a gander

comb

detect

surveillance

squint

keeping watch

rubberneck

pout

bore

slant

ignore

audit

pipe

search

note

speculation

1. Pick the vibe, not every detail You don’t need to describe every single thing in a room. Just choose the details that match the mood.

Instead of: “The room had a wooden desk, three chairs, a dusty rug, and a cracked window.” Try: “The cracked window leaked in the cold, and dust danced in the stale air—like the room forgot what ‘welcome’ felt like.”

The second one feels like something, right? Pick details that match the emotion.

2. Use the 5 senses You don’t need to force all five senses into every scene, but using more than just sight makes a huge difference. Think smell, texture, even temperature.

“Her sweater smelled like fresh rain and cheap soap. Not bad, just… honest.”

Now your reader feels it, not just sees it.

3. Less is more If you need three paragraphs to describe a hallway, you’re doing too much. Keep it tight. Quick, vivid phrases are much better than long boring blocks.

“The hallway narrowed like it didn’t want us there.” <— that’s way better than a full architectural report.

4. ✨Metaphors✨ Good metaphors or similes can describe and tell us about the character’s worldview.

“The night wrapped around him like a lie.” “Her laugh bubbled up like soda—sharp and fast.”

They add flavor without word count bloat.

5. Use character perspective How your character notices things says a lot. Two people won’t describe the same room the same way. A rich kid might say: “Faded curtains, cheap silverware.” A runaway might say: “Warm curtains, and real silverware.”

part 3 : cw torture

nikolai still sat on the edge of the iron cot, shackled to the wall by a short chain. in the center of the room stood vladimir makarov, and in his hands was a familiar leather briefcase. but from it, he drew not papers, but a tablet. he turned the screen toward nikolai. on it — satellite images, tunnel schematics, markings in cyrillic: "object 'storm', deposition coordinates."

"where are the originals?" makarov asked without preamble. his voice was quiet.

nikolai slowly raised his head.

"volodya," his voice was hoarse, but a mocking note rang in it. "lost your toys again? as i recall, in chechnya, some papers of yours also... vanished. half a platoon went down into that ravine because of your stupidity back then. and they never came back."

the henchman by the door took a step forward, but makarov barely raised his hand. his eyes narrowed.

"enough jokes, коля. this explosive isn't for the theater of war. it's for cities. for panic. you didn't just steal documents. you stole the keys to a new reality. give them back."

"for cities," nikolai nodded, pretending to understand. "so you've finally got insane. you used to at least hide behind the ghost of patriotism. now you're just a terrorist. and you want me to be your accomplice? over my dead body, you piece of shit."

the second henchman, a silent brute, couldn't take it. he moved toward nikolai, but makarov stopped him again. this time with a look. he stepped closer, looming over the seated man.

"you think your fucker will save you?" vladimir sneered with contemptuous derision.

the mention of john hit a nerve, but nikolai just smirked, looking makarov straight in the eyes.

"the captain is the last thing you'll see before your little world of shit and betrayal comes crashing down. and i'll enjoy watching it."

that was the last straw. the sarcasm, the absolute defiance, and that insane, arrogant hint that he had already lost — it all ripped the mask of cold control from makarov's face. his features contorted into a grimace of pure, uncontrollable rage.

"enough!" his shout echoed in the stone box. "strip him! to the post!"

they unhooked him from the cot, tore off the remnants of his shirt, and shackled his wrists to the iron rings driven into the concrete pillar. his back, covered in old scars, was now exposed. the henchman handed makarov not a rope whip, but something resembling several thin, flexible steel rods fused at the handle. their ends weren't wrapped; they were sharpened and slightly curved, like claws.

"you want to be a hero, like your western motherfuckers?" makarov spoke through clenched teeth, going mad with fury. "heroes endure. come on, show me how it's done."

the first blow landed with such force that nikolai didn't scream — the air was torn from his lungs with the sound of rending fabric. the pain was unlike anything. it wasn't burning; it was tearing, as if red-hot claws were digging deep into the muscles, hooking onto the very nerves. his whole body convulsed, and he hung from the chains.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?!" makarov roared, losing the last vestiges of self-control.

nikolai, choking on saliva and blood, exhaled:

"go fuck yourself."

the second blow. the third. they rained down without count, without rhythm, to the wild, hoarse cries of makarov himself. the metal whistled in the air and sank into the flesh with a wet, smacking sound. nick's back became a bloody pulp, but the pain had already crossed some threshold. it became universal, white, a roaring void in which only one thing existed: john. not as a prayer, but as an order. survive. because the captain always finds his own.

he didn't know when the blows stopped. he came to, lying face down in a puddle of his own blood and urine on the cold concrete. above him stood makarov, breathing heavily. the frenzy in his eyes had been replaced by icy, calculated cruelty.

"you're a tough one, kolya. but no one will ever know, because very soon you'll die here of hunger."

the door slammed shut. the light went out.

the darkness was absolute. at first, it was the pain that tormented him. every movement, every breath echoed in his torn back like a wave of fire. then thirst took over. it eclipsed everything. it became the thought, the sensation, the very existence. his tongue swelled, turning into a foreign, rough lump in his mouth. his throat burned.

hunger came later, a dull, heavy wave of weakness. his body began to consume itself. his consciousness would drift away into strange, vivid hallucinations, then return, crashing down with the full weight of reality: the cell, the stench, the agony.

on the second day, the fever began. the wound became inflamed. heat danced under his skin, cold seeped into his bones. he lay curled up, trying to preserve warmth, and whispered through cracked lips:

"john..."

it wasn't a plea. it was a reminder to himself. a statement of fact. price didn't abandon his own. price tracked his target to the end. if he knew nikolai was captured, he was already on his way. it was an axiom.

the way I got a notification for that post right after my friend and I talked about how I'm a total hypocrite when I say "first drafts are shit" because I will say that and turn around and be too scared to right my current wip because I'm terrified of it being bad.

How do you write it bad, how do you put all your self doubt and worries aside to write it bad and be fine with that?

Think of it like this: you're trying to paint the mona lisa. Your first draft should be like a finger painting. Is that going to look like the mona lisa? No, probably not even a little bit. But your second draft might be a watercolor painting. And your third might be acrylic. By the time you've reached anything even close to the mona lisa, you will have probably done four, five, six, nine, or thirty-two drafts.

The important thing is that you're writing- not that it's good. I don't even let myself read what I write as I write a first draft. I just keep going until it's done.

I used to have the same problem but you have to realize that the reason rough drafts are called that is because they're really, really, really rough sometimes.

I started writing my WIP when I was 16. By the time I reached the end, I was a significantly better writer than I had been when I started. That means that, in comparison with a lot of the later chapters, the first few chapters were downright bad.

But because I had written those bad chapters, I had something to work with. And it didn't take me another 5 years to write the second draft, it's taken me maybe 6 months. Even in those bad chapters, I found things that I liked that I can rework into something good now. But if I hadn't written it bad, I would have nothing to work with at all.

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