As far as phobias go, a fear of debt probably isn't the worst. I don't know how I came by mine. It wasn't a disorder that touched the lives of any other member of my family. My parents, bless them, paid for me to go to college, and after that I was on my own.

I was a teaching assistant in graduate school, baby-sat on the side and lived on something my roommate and I called pizza toast. I didn't have a car or a credit card. Once a week I borrowed the neighbor's vacuum. It wasn't a bad life. I was never afraid of low-paying jobs, small apartments or secondhand furniture, but I was terrified of getting in over my head. To that end, as my career progressed, I didn't take advances on books I hadn't written. The idea of owing my publisher was no more palatable than the idea of owing Citicard.

I was 36 and living in Nashville, Tenn., when I was ready to buy my first house. I waited until I had enough money saved to pay for it. In fact, I had exactly enough money, with around $5,000 to spare. But everyone explained to me that a house required a mortgage, and while a mortgage was in fact a loan, it wasn't really seen as such. A mortgage was part of life. It was adulthood. I should get a mortgage.

If you suffer from a crippling case of ophidiophobia and then go spend your life in Ireland, it's easy to imagine you've gotten over your fear of snakes. I had a fear of debt, but having lived my life without debt, I told myself it was no longer a problem. So I went to see a mortgage broker.

The mortgagebroker told me there was no record of my existence, financially speaking.

'But I've paid every bill on time,' I said. 'I have money in the bank. I must have a perfect credit rating.'

I was told that a credit rating is established by taking out a loan and then paying it back. Who knew? Still, after a great deal of finagling in which my standing in the community, my long connection to the bank and my future royalties were all taken into consideration, I was given a loan. I moved into my house, unpacked some boxes and went to bed. All night long my eyelids stayed rolled up like window shades. I did not own this house. The bank owned this house. I was in debt now, huge debt. I had gone from Ireland straight into the snake pit.

For a few days I held it together. I painted the rooms myself, got a book and figured out some very basic principles of plumbing and wiring. Now that I was in debt I figured I should live on the cheap, something I didn't do as a rule. (I might not spend more than what I had, but I was perfectlycapable of spending what I had). Then I got my booklet of payment coupons.

You may think it odd that a person could reach the age of 36 without having any understanding of how loan payments worked