Macomber - Once Upon a Time: Discovering Our Forever After Story

to
Lois Dyer
fellow author and
special God-given
friend

Dear Friends ,

Did you hear the one about....

Oh my goodness, you wont believe what happened to me...

Once upon a time a...

When we hear those words, we pause and listen because we know were about to hear a story. Everyone loves a story. What do you remember about the last sermon you heard? My guess is a story the preacher told to illustrate his point. That was exactly what Jesus did. He told stories, stories so rich they have touched lives every generation since .

Because I am primarily a fiction writer, one question I ask myself as I plot my books is What if? My mind starts playing with the idea of plot twists and unexpected turns taking the reader on a journey that all started with a what if question .

The point of this book is that we are writing our own stories, the story of our lives and we are sure to encounter plenty of twists and turns along this pathway called life. My hope is that these seventeen chapters will resonate with you as I tell my own story and hold open the door for you to consider yours .

As an author I work with an incredible publishing team. I would be remiss if I didnt credit those who have worked so hard to craft this idea into a book... a story for you, my reader. First and foremost my agent and dear friend, Wendy Lawton. Wendy is amazing. Organized, articulate, talented, and generous. This is my first book working with editor Beth Adams, and I hope its one of many. Rebekah Nesbitt, editor in chief of Howard Books, is a bright shining star in the publishing arena. Anyone who has the pleasure to work with her sings her praises, and Im happy to join that choir. Publisher Jonathan Merkh is amazing. He saw the vision for my nonfiction titles and has been a constant friend and encourager. I love you all and thank God for the opportunity to work with you .

Debbie Macomber

You can reach me in a variety of ways: my website at DebbieMacomber.com or on Facebook or by writing me directly at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366 .

Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story .

PSALM 107:2

O nce upon a time, in a land not far away, I grew up dreaming of castles, handsome knights, and princes on fiery steeds, like many young girls. My family was an ordinary one, with a mother and a father and one wicked brother who sold copies of my diary to all the boys in my junior high class.

Every fortnight of my childhood I would journey to the library, seeking more tales of valor and knights. As I opened the heavy library door, juggling a stack of books, the hush of the cavernous room felt like a medieval priory. The smell of books and ink, leather and floor wax, brought a smile of eager anticipation. Usually I had finished my last book the night before and couldnt wait to begin a new adventure, hopefully one with knights willing to carry me off to the land of enchantment.

Because I am a slow reader, it took me a long time to read each story. Consequently I relished every scene, each fair maiden and fearsome dragon. I never understood why other kids were able to read so quickly. Not me. I had to read each sentence slowly and thoughtfully, but word by word, the story emerged. Like magic. Id venture to faraway places, reading about princes and castles, but I also read about girls who lived in small towns just like Yakima, Washington.

After returning my stack of books to the counter, I would head for my favorite corner of the library to begin the deliciously difficult job of choosing a new stack of books. As I slid a book off the shelf and fingered the adhesive label on the spine, I anticipated the adventure I knew was tucked between the covers.

Someday... perhaps I could write these kinds of stories. Already the ideas whirled around inside my head. I never could read a book without making up a story of my own.

That dream never changed. I knew I wanted to write stories someday. Stories that would sit on library shelves just like these. Stories just waiting for someone to open the cover and join in the adventure.

Most people smiled indulgently when I shared my dream. Once, when I told a teacher that I planned to be a writer and one day I would write a book, she smiled and patted my hand. You cant write, Debbie, she said. why, you cant even spell.

But the dream refused to go away.

Then one day, when I was only nineteen, a handsome electrician drove up in a shiny black convertible. It wasnt a steed, but I knew a prince when I saw one, and before long we were married. Soon we were living in a two-bedroom cottage with a white picket fence.

As often happens when a fair damsel meets her Prince Charming, children followed, and soon the two-bedroom cottage became a four-bedroom castle. The kingdom flourished and prospered, and between soccer games and car pools, ballet classes and clarinet lessons, I dreamed about love and enchantment and the magic of romance. Money was scarce in those days, but there was never a shortage of books. Our four children knew their mommy loved to tell stories. That was a good thing, since they loved to listen to them. As I fixed frugal feasts that could stretch a pound of hamburger six ways to Sunday, I still dreamed of writing books and telling stories.

A dream that never dies eventually demands attention. Despite a budget that allowed nothing frivolous, I took that leap of faith and answered the call to write. We rented a typewriter for twenty-five dollars a month. Twenty-five whole dollars! That was a big chunk out of the castle coffers in those days.

But I faithfully wrote on that typewriter every day. I spun stories, wrote articles, and kept at it faithfully, despite receiving rejection after rejection. After a number of years, my patient prince came to me with a handful of bills. Darling, he said as he put his arm around me, Im going to have to ask you to get a job. Something that pays money.

I looked at my typewriter, sitting on the kitchen table beside a mountain of typed pages tied into book-sized bundles with twine.

Were just not making it, he said, and I dont know what else to do.

I knew he was right. Maybe the fairy tale was ending. I knew that I couldnt work, care for the kids, and still follow my dream. Maybe some dreams were just not meant to come true. I packed away the manuscripts and cleaned up the typewriter in preparation for returning it.

That night I didnt sleep. I kept thinking about my dream.

In the wee hours, the prince stirred and saw me awake. Whats wrong? he asked.

I think I could have made it, I whispered. I dont know why, but I think I could have made it as a writer.

My prince was quiet for a very long time before he took my hand. If it means that much to you, then go for it. He squeezed my hand. Well figure something out. Well do whatever we have to do so you can write.

And somehow we got by. Every day the two older children came home from school to the sound of typewriter keys clacking away. My big break didnt happen the next year. Or the next. In fact, it didnt happen for five long years. Then one day I received that magical telephone call. A publisher offered to buy my book.

That special story was the first of a whole bookcase full of books I would eventually write. I wrote book after book, and, I am grateful to say, readers bought those books. Some even went to the very library I used to haunt as a child. With confidence, they slid my books off the shelf, knowing they would find satisfying stories tucked between the covers.