A Husband's Faith Bolsters a Writer's Dream

Author Debbie Macomber discusses her early struggles and the role that Dr. Norman Vincent Peale played in helping her to achieve her dream.

By Debbie Macomber, Port Orchard, Washington

As appeared in

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"Honey, you need to find a job.” It was early 1980 and my husband, Wayne, stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching a handful of unpaid bills. My stomach clenched and I swallowed an automatic protest before I saw the look of regret in his eyes. We were going deeper into debt each month while I struggled to sell my first novel.

From as long as I could remember, I dreamed of writing novels. My love for the written word started early, when my mother took me to the library for story hour. From the time I was three years old, I went to sleep at night with a book in my hands. I discovered the powerful connection between the story and the reader. I could feel what the characters felt, cry with them, laugh with them. I wanted to write stories like that. I dreamed of the day when readers would hold my book in their hands.

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You might be surprised to know that reading didn’t come easy to me. I was the only girl in my first-grade class to be in the robin (slow) reading group. It turned out that I was dyslexic, but back in the early 1950s my teachers didn’t have a word for it. I can remember my third-grade teacher telling my mother, “Debbie is such a nice girl, but she’ll never do well in school.” To this day I’m a slow, thoughtful reader and a creative speller.

Nevertheless, the dream persisted. I wanted to write books. When Wayne and I married and had our four children in quick succession, it was easy to stuff my dreams into the future with a long list of justifications and excuses. Then a dear cousin died suddenly. It felt as if God was saying to me that if I was ever going to write, the time was now. Life is short. Get started.

We rented a typewriter and I put it on the kitchen table. The kids would go out the door to school and Super Mom was transformed into that hopeful young writer. For two and a half years I sat at that kitchen table and pounded away on those typewriter keys, completing two full novels. Because I was doing something I loved, I was genuinely happy. Because I was pursuing a lifelong dream, I was a better wife and better mother.

But everything came to a crashing halt that Sunday afternoon. Wayne set down the unpaid bills. Together we reviewed our finances and I realized there wasn’t any alternative. I had to get a job, a real job, that would contribute to our family income.

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With the newspaper in hand, I circled three positions to apply for the next morning. Even if I was fortunate enough to get hired right away, I’d be lucky to receive anything above minimum wage.

As I looked up from the newspaper, my gaze fell on the typewriter and I knew this would be the end of my dream of selling a novel. All four children were involved in sports, music, Scouts and church. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day for me to keep up with the kids’ schedules, work full-time, maintain the house and still write. I might as well kiss that dream good-bye.

What was the use anyway? Really, what chance did I have of selling a novel? Everyone said I had to know someone if I was ever to get published—an editor, an agent, someone in the business. I didn’t, and that was just one more strike against me.

Doubts battered me as I considered those three want ads. There wasn’t anything wrong with any of them, except that I had no desire to work as a receptionist or a cashier. I was born to tell stories—only now that dream had to be dashed.