Village Writer

The hardest—and probably most painful—part of writing is accepting criticism. When I walk into class after returning their first edited manuscript, some students smile politely while mourning the loss of a limb; others behave as if I’ve performed a full lobotomy. I sigh the unavoidable sigh of a writing teacher, hand back the pages, and brace myself. There’s no other way out. I have to give them the news the same way I’d want it delivered to me. I still remember my first editorial review from a writing professor. I thanked him feebly, but panic nearly paralyzed me. Was he telling me my work was hopeless? Unrevivable? My only comfort was knowing he let me keep coming back. The first draft is a joyride—a glorious shut-off-the-brain sprint so the story can tumble out. But revision? That’s when the gloves go on and we start poking around inside the body. Is that a tumor? Will that limb need amputation? I nearly second-guessed myself into heart failure while learning to self-edit. Us...

The bravest choice a writer makes is to tell the truth—especially when it means telling the truth about herself. I’ve watched new student writers hold back, protecting their protagonists (and, let’s be honest, themselves), leaving only a few peripheral characters—like ex-husbands or old boyfriends—to be sacrificed. The details of the human condition are often sanitized or gagged. We can’t connect with her story, because the wounded soul inside is dressed up in stretch-leggings and big earrings, like Malibu Barbie on her best day. But the confessional writer? She comes to the page like a wailing wall. She kneels, and the story spills—messy, improper, and real. It’s not a protest. It’s not graffiti. It’s an offering: fragments of what she overlooked, or what others missed completely. She risks exposure, yes—but she remembers what it was like to live in hiding. And that was worse. She can’t turn back now. This is how life has spun out of her: part vexing passage, part prayer.

There’s something quietly beautiful about friends who follow their curiosity through books. They chase questions, dive into unfamiliar worlds, and emerge changed— sometimes in small ways, sometimes profoundly. If you’re lucky enough to have one of these readers in your life, supporting them can be a meaningful way to deepen your connection. Start by showing genuine interest. Ask them what they’re reading—not just the title, but what drew them to it. Let them talk about the ideas or characters that linger with them, and listen without rushing to respond. A thoughtful question like, “What surprised you most?” or “Has this book changed how you see something?” can open the door to a deeper kind of conversation, one that honors both the book and the reader. It helps, too, to share pieces of your own reading life—not as a recommendation list, but as an offering. If you’ve come across a book or a line that resonates with something they’ve mentioned, pass it along gently, with no pressure to r...

I remember the first time I sat down at a blank computer screen. I had finally organized my family and finances to carve out time for my first novel. What I hadn’t planned for was the screen’s intimidating glare. It stared back at me, daring me: Well, what will you do with me now? I had no choice but to plunge in and write wrong for a while. And then, one day, a viable story emerged. I finally sold my first novel after twelve failed book proposals. If luck resides anywhere near the number thirteen, I’ll claim it. Even after eighteen books, the fear of the blank screen still waits for me at the end of each project. Starting again—the next idea, the next best plot I can hope to imagine—remains just as daunting as it was the first time. Every writer must choose the next story. That decision either springs from a desire to please—or from somewhere deeper. Sure, we might sweat out these narratives for practical reasons, but something else drives us too. Stories echo around the cave of...

Sometimes the delay is the real turning point. I'm in the tenuous, last-week stage of house-building fatigue—those final days when you're buried in paperwork, chasing down missing items, and making constant Lowe’s runs to replace the things that won’t do. Out of print paper, we ducked into the neighborhood CVS to save a trip to the suburbs, hoping a single ream would cover the final round of documents to print and fax. I got in line with my paper and a few last-minute items. One lone, clearly exhausted checker was holding down the fort on this busy Saturday afternoon. At the front of the line stood a woman of foreign origin, her head covered, her body wrapped in bright fabrics. Her velvet-black skirt brushed the floor. I was customer number nine. The line stretched behind me—grumbling included a man with a cane who muttered loudly, "We should have gone to the Walgreens." I'll admit I was already weary. I took a deep breath and tried to battle back the impatie...

I asked my students to write a personal essay — a story only they could tell — with rising tension and a clear beginning, middle, and end. Simple instructions. But then came Benny. Benny had arrived at our large city university from a rural community in North Carolina. Many of my students came from similar backgrounds, but Benny’s writing revealed deep struggles: he hadn’t yet mastered even basic subject-verb agreement. His sentences sputtered and broke apart like a puzzle missing key pieces. When Benny first met with me, he was petrified. “I’m going to flunk, right?” he asked. He wanted me to know he was good at math. I sensed he’d long avoided English classes, treating them as useless — like harp lessons for a Beluga whale. Despite the tangled language, Benny’s essay shone through with the weight of his large heart. I asked him to tell me the story aloud. Suddenly, his words came alive, raw and powerful. I was spellbound. “Benny, this is going to be one of the most important ...

By Patricia Hickman Writing a book is hard. Selling one? Even harder. Like many authors, I spent long hours writing, and even longer hours trying to market my work—often without the success I'd hoped for. Eventually I had to ask myself a hard question:  Was I just “doing” the work… AND MORE HONESTLY, was I truly achieving anything? That moment led me to identify three mindset traps—what I call “deadly bombs” —that were quietly sabotaging my publishing efforts. 💣 Bomb #1 Letting the Wounded Self Take Over Years ago, I developed a detailed marketing plan for a newly releasing novel. I shared it with a friend—a powerhouse in publishing—and he called it “brilliant.” Encouraged, I presented the same plan to my publisher’s publicity team. But on a conference call with their department, my ideas were met with resistance. The publicist dismissed my entire strategy, saying none of it would work. By the end of the call, I felt foolish for even trying. I shelved the plan. ...

 From Lifeless to Irresistible: Turning a First Sentence into a Hook that Connects. Part 2: How to Rewrite a Flat Opening By Patricia Hickman A first sentence is more than a beginning—it’s a promise. It’s the author’s way of saying, “Something worth reading starts right here.” And whether you’re writing a novel, a short story, or even a blog post, that first line can either draw your reader in or let them drift away. But let’s be honest: most of us don’t write great first lines on the first try. We write flat ones. Quiet ones. Explainers. Set-up sentences. Sometimes, we don’t even realize we’ve done it until later. If you’ve ever looked at your opening line and thought, “It’s fine, but it’s not doing anything,” —you’re in the right place. This post will walk you through how to identify, diagnose, and rewrite a flat opening so it actually pulls your reader into the world of your story. 🚨 What Makes a First Sentence Fall Flat? Here are a few signs your opening line may need a rew...

“Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn't try to write fiction. It's not a grand enough job for you.” — Flannery O’Connor Flannery O’Connor understood the beauty and necessity of dust. Her stories weren’t clean or polished; they were jagged, raw, full of grace and grit. Like renown writers, she named uncomfortable truths—and met resistance from the very culture that should’ve understood her best. Pretty stories, please, Flannery.  Even now, when a writer dares to let the dust settle into their stories—their doubt, grief, longing, questions—they often face criticism. Stories, especially in some circles, are expected to shimmer. No cracks. No shadows. Just smiles and tidy endings. But when we force art into a glittering shell of perfection, it loses its soul. It becomes hollow. If you’re a new writer—especially one trying to write from a place of depth or purpose—here’s what I want you to know:...

Writers are often asked, “How did you know this was the right path?” The truth is—we don’t always know. Like many, I’ve taken detours. I’ve chosen Road B when, in hindsight, Road A might’ve been better. But I’ve also learned that if your heart is in the right place, even the wrong road can take you somewhere worthwhile. Sometimes, the lesser-traveled path turns out to be the most meaningful. Life is a constant crossroads—so many ways to go. And in the moment, we often ask: What now? How should I spend this hour, this season, this chapter of my life? When there’s no clear direction, I return to what grounds me. I choose to do the work I was created to do—the thing I do best. Then I love deeply. I seek what is true. That’s the only road I’ve ever known that leads to contentment. When you reach a crossroads, how do you choose? Do you plan? Wing it? Pull your hair out? (Or maybe run screaming into the woods?) However you find your way, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Share your ...

I couldn’t tell you the date my washing machine last broke down. But I remember the day I dragged a colicky baby into a coin-operated laundromat —frazzled, short on one-dollar bills, and already two steps behind the rhythm of the place. There was a woman who seemed to rule the space. She looked like she’d lived there long enough to have earned the crown. She gave me a withering look—clearly I didn’t know the unspoken rules : watch the machines. Move fast. Bring coins. For Pete’s sake, bring something to read. There I sat—clueless, exhausted, and very much out of place. One day, queen of all I survey; the next, an outsider on a cracked vinyl chair. That’s why I can write like the outcast . Maybe the story you're writing is waiting for the outcast to enter —to bring light to a world your readers long to see into. Our most meaningful characters often emerge from the moments when we, ourselves, were on the outside looking in. Think back: When did you feel like the outsider in ...

First sentences are a novelist’s signature. They should whisper a question to the reader—one answered slowly, deliciously, by the story. They should make an editor lean forward. They should crack the story wide open. I spend hours—days, sometimes—writing and rewriting that first line. I’ve tossed more than I’ve kept. And that’s okay. A great first sentence carries the weight of everything that comes after it. It has to do a lot of heavy lifting: Suggest tone Spark curiosity Hint at character And, ideally, set a little trouble in motion Here’s one I wrote for Fallen Angels : “A bit of trouble with attempted murder sent Jeb Nubey over the Texarkana border in the unfortunate direction of hunger.” In one line, you already know a few things: Jeb’s in hot water. He’s probably not new to it. He’s a little unlucky—and very human. There’s trouble, voice, and setting—all baked in from the start. The first line opens the door. It tells your reader, You want to know what happ...

Welcome to my new blog, Village Writer. I am starting this new blog endeavor at the urging of FaceBook friends . I dedicate this blog to you, my friends who know me as your author, some as your editor, and some as your writing teacher. For those who once followed my writer-ly musings at Words to Go, I am returning to blogdom again and hope you will forgive my sabbatical away. I’m launching this new blog at the urging of my Facebook friends, and I dedicate it to you—my longtime supporters, readers, and fellow writers. If you once followed my musings at Words to Go , thank you for walking with me then—and welcome back. I’ve returned from my blogging sabbatical, eager to share reflections on writing, books, and the creative life. Please linger, explore, and if something resonates, leave a note for other writing souls to find and feast upon. Peace, Patricia Hickman The Village Writer

When I first started writing novels, I was all about the research. I made copious notes on setting, architecture, and historical data. I dug deep into the external world of my story. Then I’d make character worksheets—what my characters liked to eat, what kind of clothing they wore, what town they were born in. And that kind of research is important. But eventually, I realized something was missing. 🧠 The Interior Landscape Matters More Good fiction relies on research. Great fiction lets the reader live inside the character’s mind. If you want to write stories that resonate deeply, you must learn to observe not just the outer world, but the inner world —what I call the interior landscape . These are the thoughts your characters don’t say aloud. The fleeting ideas. The awkward or impolite truths. The things we’ve been taught to keep to ourselves in polite society. And yet—these are the very things that humanize your character. They’re what make a reader stop mid-page and t...

This one’s personal from a few years ago; but it stayed with me all day. Here’s what happened: Some days, I’m reminded of the old adage: there are more important things. This morning, I slipped into the local village bookstore, The Country Bookshop, hoping to introduce myself — something I often do when I’m near a Southern bookseller. Just as I was inching toward a few irresistible titles, one of the associates whispered that the president of the local college was standing behind me. Ah! A familiar face — and better yet, I was caught red-handed promoting the fiction class I’ll soon be teaching at his college. One introduction led to another, and soon a circle of new literary friends had formed, all of us clogging the aisle and filling the air with literary chatter and publishing talk — the kind that quickens a writer’s pulse by Hemingway-esque increments. It was a lovely moment. Until I got in the car and my spouse called. I had, in my dreamy, bookish bliss, completely missed ...

See Differently We’re taught to describe what we see: the red door, the blue sky, the glass of tea sweating on the windowsill. But observation in writing isn’t about naming things—it’s about uncovering them. Disconnect from seeing as you’ve been taught. See from underneath, from cracked open, from over a neighbor’s fence or lying precariously in the center of a busy highway. See strangely, nakedly, without the familiar codes. See honestly—without sentiment. Stare at the details until you see beneath the pigment. Until the epidermis disintegrates. Until the detail becomes more palpable than color. See until what you describe is potent yet spare, whispering what has long gone unnoticed. See until you hear the secrets. ✍️ Try this: Take one ordinary thing you encounter today—a gesture, a sound, a face—and look again. Then write what you see now.

The writing books I share with students are gems—earned, honest, and useful. But the books that promise overnight success? Most working writers pause at the sight of those. In my early, unpublished days, I picked up one such book with anticipation. It promised chart-busting success, after all. I imagined the author, post-contract, sitting in the glow of her screen, head in hands, whispering, “Someone’s going to out me for this.” Within a chapter, I realized she had simply pasted her entire novel—from draft to completion—into a how-to format, loosely framed with vague advice. She could have summed it up in one sentence—and saved a tree. The real success? She created a nest egg for herself. The book delivered less craft and more cash flow. Here’s the harder truth: Revision is essential if we want to write our best stories. And yet, many beautifully written, deeply revised books are still overlooked by the public. What attracts readers—and leads to legendary book sales—is often un...

Imagine a scene at a grand ball. The President is the guest of honor. Maybe the Princess of England is there too. It’s that kind of night. Our protagonist is a young man—the son of a high-ranking politician—at ease in this highbrow setting. He’s dressed in a black merino tuxedo cut from the finest European bolt. He notices a beautiful blonde guest in a pink ball gown. Their eyes meet. He invites her onto the balcony. It’s a love story, right? Easy. Familiar. I’ve handed you the hook. But let’s go back—to the second before his eyes land on the woman in pink. Another young woman has slipped past security and entered the ballroom unnoticed. Her hair is pinned hastily. Her dress is off-the-rack. She’s anxious, out of place, and clearly not invited. She steps in front of the politician’s son. Before he can approach the blonde, this uninvited girl whispers something in his ear. He averts his eyes, takes her hands, and leads her—gently, silently—off the dance floor and onto the b...