Devri Walls is a U.S. and international bestselling novelist who’s released five books so far, specializing in fantasy and paranormal stories. She lives in Meridian, Idaho with her husband and two children. Her husband works in law enforcement — a career that could not be more different from Devri’s day-to-day life as a writer — yet together they’ve managed to shape a warm, resilient marriage that looks a lot like a small, everyday paradise. Below are excerpts from an interview with Devri that offer honest, amusing, and practical ideas for anyone wanting to build marriage goals worth keeping.
1. How did you meet your husband?
We met when he was twenty and I was twenty-two, up in upstate New York. It was one of those meet-cute moments that sounds better in hindsight. I spotted him holding a bag of candy and — starving, being me — I blurted out something like, “Hey, want to share your booty with me?” (Yes, I said “booty.” Please judge my hunger, not my vocabulary.) He gave me a sideways look and a sly half-smile and said, “I don’t think you can say that to me,” strolled off and popped a piece of candy into his mouth.
Mortified, I sputtered, “No — booty like Pirate’s Booty!” That joke haunted us for years after we married. I still remember the day I grabbed a bag of Pirate’s Booty from a store shelf and triumphantly announced, “See? Pirate’s booty!” — and we both dissolved into laughter. It’s a tiny, silly story, but it captures how humor and an easy awkwardness helped start things between us.
2. How do your wildly different careers bring you closer together?
We require very different mindsets to do our jobs well. My husband is methodical, calm, and measured; I’m, well, a writer — which means my brain is usually loud, scattered, and led by feeling. Those opposites balance us. If he ever gets rattled, I can calm him; and most of the time, his level-headedness pulls me back from emotional whirlwinds.
He even borrows police de-escalation techniques at home. Early in our marriage, when arguments escalated, he began replying to my high-volume, emotional responses in a softer, controlled tone. Without realizing it I’d lower my voice to match his until we were arguing in whispers. He later admitted that was a trained tactic to defuse tense situations. I was mildly annoyed that he’d “de-escalated” me — but it changed how we fight for the better. We barely shout anymore.
My tendency to notice wonder in ordinary moments has rubbed off on him, too. Once he actually suggested we make a fairy garden. I had to ask him to repeat himself. Little things like that — a shared laugh, a ridiculous project — draw us closer and keep life from becoming all practicalities.
3. What are some challenges to being married to someone in law enforcement?
It’s a demanding career for the whole family. His job is tough on him, on me, and on the kids. He loves it, and I chose early on to support that, knowing a fulfilling job is a rare gift. But his hours can be brutal. Some days I’m effectively a single parent; other days he’s home and suddenly things shift again.
That requires flexible logistics: I arrange schedules so I can handle things solo if I must, and he steps in to relieve pressure when he’s home. I’ve learned to flip between “single-mom mode” and “partner-in-parenting mode.” His day-to-day exposure to trauma and hard scenes affects our family choices — where we eat, how we parent, what activities we allow the kids to do, and even where I sit in a restaurant.
A harder, less visible challenge is the natural instinct in police work to protect loved ones by not sharing the dark parts of the job. That secrecy is understandable, but keeping half your experience bottled up creates distance. The divorce rate in law enforcement is high partly because officers don’t share enough with their spouses. My husband doesn’t tell me everything, but he’s learned to share most of what matters so our connection stays strong. For my part, I’ve had to learn to let go — not my specialty — because obsessively holding on to every story would make me anxious and miserable. Letting go became a choice I made for my health and for our marriage.
Practical tips for couples in similar situations: schedule regular, honest check-ins; build a small support network (friends, therapist, peer groups) who understand the job’s toll; and create rituals at home that reinforce safety and normalcy — small anchors when work life is stormy.
4. Have you written characters inspired by your husband or his job?
Definitely influenced by him. I wouldn’t say I copy him outright, but his dry sarcasm and heart-of-gold attitude show up in character after character. Living with him for the last fifteen years has been like getting a masterclass in dry humor, which has been lovely fuel for dialogue and characterization.
When it comes to profession-specific influence, I initially thought I hadn’t used his police work directly — then realized Venators: Magic Unleashed features teens who serve as a kind of fantasy law enforcement. So yes: his presence, personality, and the general flavor of his job have seeped into my writing in subtle and fun ways. I’m careful to fictionalize and protect his real privacy, but inspiration is inevitable when you share a life.
5. What marriage skills are useful in your work as a writer?
The single most powerful skill in both marriage and writing is wanting more for the other person than you want for yourself. When both people genuinely root for the other’s happiness, the relationship thrives. I’ve made sacrifices for his career, and he’s made enormous sacrifices for mine — without his humility and support, I couldn’t pursue writing as I do.
He’ll pull long shifts, then come home and quietly clean my kitchen at midnight, take over bedtime duty when I’m away for a signing, or kick me out of the house so I can write in peace. He shoulders a lot so I can chase this dream. In return I try to shoulder emotional labor and household tasks so he can rest and be present when he’s home.
Other transferable skills: patience, deadline discipline, and clear communication. Writing teaches you how to sit with discomfort and finish tasks; marriage teaches you how to keep promises and choose the relationship even when it’s inconvenient. Both require humility and a commitment to consistent, small acts of care.
6. What are the four most important components of any marriage?
Humility. Love. Sacrifice. Honesty.
Humility keeps egos from turning small problems into wars. Love is the guiding reason you keep choosing the relationship. Sacrifice is the daily, often invisible, work you do for the other person’s well-being. Honesty — even when it’s hard — is the glue that keeps trust intact. Those four together make a marriage resilient and kind.
7. Advice for balancing a creative profession and a healthy marriage?
Balance is ongoing work — not a destination. Creativity rarely has an off switch; when I’m drafting, ideas run in the background while I’m cooking, commuting (not recommended), or folding laundry. It’s easy to stay in that headspace and miss what’s happening at home.
Open communication helps. I remember a night years ago when my husband quietly sat beside me, waited until I finished a line I was writing, and then placed his hand on my arm and said, “We need you, too, honey. Don’t forget about us, okay?” Sometimes you need a literal, gentle pull back to the real world. I have to be willing to listen and say, “Okay,” and then re-balance.
Practical strategies that have helped us:
- Set short, regular checkpoints: a five-minute check-in at lunch or a bedtime ritual that reconnects you.
- Use signals for “do not disturb” and “I need to come back now” so both people know when to step away or step in.
- Protect couple time as non-negotiable — even short date nights or ten minutes of uninterrupted talk works wonders.
- Build margins into your schedule so creative flow doesn’t always collide with family needs.
- Accept the pain of switching out of flow as part of the work and then intentionally create rituals to smooth the transition.
Artists can be tempted to hide in their work rather than face the whiplash of real life. But art loses its meaning if there’s no one left to share it with. The goal is to build a life where both art and relationship have room to breathe.
