Deborah Anderson

In 2000, Deborah Anderson left the medical field to care for her elderly mother. Soon after, she began writing. She has written for Focus on the Family, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and numerous other publications. She is a member of TWV, ACFW, CWG, and FCW. Married 29 years, Deborah and her husband enjoy country living in the Midwest. She also spends her time rescuing cats, reading novels, and taking nature walks. Deborah recently completed her first novel. You can contact Deborah at:

To Market We Will Go

When I first started writing, a fire ignited in my soul—until others spoke about marketing—and the embers faded fast.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no problem opening my mouth or penning my thoughts on paper, obviously, but I don’t like to be seen. I even sit in the back pew at church on Sundays.

After this gruesome discovery that I would need to market my work, I almost quit the craft, until my husband came to my rescue. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I’ll be your marketing manager. I’ll take care of everything.”

And I knew the man would, bless his heart, so I agreed. He’s run his own business for years, and God’s given him wisdom in such matters, so I felt secure in is words. I put all notions of marketing on a shelf and continued writing.

When I recently published another story, he took it upon himself to mess with the notions on my marketing shelf. We were riding in his truck one afternoon when he decided to display his intentions. For some reason, he likes to spring things on me in closed spaces.

“How about doing a book signing, Deb?”

I stared out the window. “It’s not my book, honey. It’s an anthology.”

“But . . . you could still do a signing.”

Yes, I could, but I’m not going to, dumpling.

I turned and eyed him. “I’ll pray about it, okay?”

Now, when someone tells me they’re ill and need prayer, I tell them I’ll pray for them, and I do. When my husband is pressuring me and I don’t want to hear what the man’s saying, I tell him I’ll pray about the subject, which means I probably won’t concede.

He knows this about me, though, so I should probably come up with a new line. Now that I think about it, I’ll bet that’s why he corners me in his truck. I can’t run, hop away, or anything. All I can do is pray.

God does have a sense of humor.

Anyway, the following day, as we were tooling down the road in his truck again, his cell phone chirped. Not wanting to disturb him, I stared out the window, admiring the passing farmland, until I overheard him mention a book signing.

I waved my hands—I could do that in the truck—and practically hissed. “What are you doing?”

He fixed his eyes straight ahead and kept talking. “Saturday?” he said. “What time?”

I prayed. Please, please, please, please. Okay, begged is more like it, but at least I kept my word and tried some form of praying.

He slapped his phone shut, looked at me, and grinned. “You said I could be your marketing manager, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“But a signing is for when I publish my book.” I flipped my hand. “You never ask me about nothin.’” I spoke in the true Southern dialect and words of Loretta Lynn’s character from the movie Coal Miner’s Daughter when she was chewing out her husband, Doo. (For those of you who haven’t seen the movie, it’s the part where she yells at Doo for always making decisions without her input.)


But Doo loves Loretta, just as my husband loves me, and Doo had her best interests at heart. If not for Doo pushing her, Loretta might not have been famous at all. That should account for something.

Only I ain’t Loretta Lynn.

“Well, everything’s all set up now,” he said.

I drummed my fingers on the armrest. “I don’t want to go.”

“Look at it this way, honey. You’re sticking your toes in the water and getting your feet wet. When the time comes to do a signing for your book, you’ll be ready.” He smiled as though the problem had vanished.

To make matters worse, he not only had moi trapped in his truck, but we were on our way to a friend’s house, for a fancy dinner, which meant I had to wait until we returned home before I could really blast him.

Oh, wait. Good Christian women don’t blast their husbands, do they?

Like I said, I had to wait until we returned home before I could appropriately discuss the situation with him.

I ate like a sow at the dinner instead.

But I did later discuss the situation with him, and let me tell you, the man wouldn’t budge.

The dreaded day arrived, and I climbed into my husband’s truck. Off we went to the book signing. My heart thumped, thumped all the way there.

Two hours later, after forty copies had sold, he beamed. “See, honey, aren’t you glad you did this now?”

Refusing to let my little cat swallow the canary, I forced a grin. “All I know is I’m ready to go home.”

I wish I could tell you the day ended happily ever after, that I’m raring to do another book signing, but I’m not. I have issues, I tell you, just like Loretta.

But you already knew that, didn’t you?

The main thing?

I pushed through my fears—I survived.

And trust me, if I did it, so can you.


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