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

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Debbie Macomber, with more than 100 million copies of her books sold worldwide, is one of today’s most popular authors. Visit her at DebbieMacomber.com.

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Once Upon a Time

One

IN THE BEGINNING . . .

Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story.

—PSALM 107:2

Once 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 couldn’t 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. I’d 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 can’t write, Debbie,” she said. “why, you can’t 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 wasn’t 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, “I’m 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.

“We’re just not making it,” he said, “and I don’t know what else to do.”

I knew he was right. Maybe the fairy tale was ending. I knew that I couldn’t 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 didn’t sleep. I kept thinking about my dream.

In the wee hours, the prince stirred and saw me awake. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I think I could have made it,” I whispered. “I don’t 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. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll 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 didn’t happen the next year. Or the next. In fact, it didn’t 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.

To this day I walk up the staircase into my writing turret and continue to tell stories. Even though my publishers have sold more than one hundred million of my books, I am not finished telling stories.

I plan to write happily ever after.



I was born to be a storyteller. I’ve read stories, collected stories, written stories, and loved stories my entire life. There are no words that stir my soul more than “once upon a time.”

I relish every aspect of being a writer, but through the years I’ve had an insight about myself as an author: I’m happiest when I’m writing. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy meeting my readers, doing interviews, and everything else that is involved in my career, but in the end—and the beginning—I am a writer, and telling a story is what’s most important to me.

The very first time I visited that library in my hometown, I was only four years old. When Miss Bunn, the librarian, handed me that very first book—a Little Golden Book—my mother said I took it with both hands, looked at it for the longest time, and then pressed it against my heart. My mother could not pry the book away from me. My love of books never waned. I struggled with reading until I was ten years old, but once the concept of sounding out words took hold in my mind, those books I carried home from the library never gathered dust. I read them under the covers long after the lights should have been out. I knew I needed to sleep, but the story kept moving forward, and I was caught up in the magic and wonder of it all. This was the same magic and wonder I longed to create someday myself. When I finally closed the book, sleep still eluded me. I would often lie awake into the wee hours of the morning, reliving the plot and the beauty of the...