Around this time of year, I always start wondering about the people who sell Christmas trees in lots, the folks who live in trailers or RVs from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve. Sometimes there are families, sometimes just single young guys. Where do they come from? Do they mind not having their holidays at home?
I wonder about them, but not being someone who converses with strangers easily, I never ask them questions. I was talking about this with Brian, and lamenting that I’m not more like my mom or uncle, who can strike up conversations and find out all about people when they’re just waiting in line at the grocery store. I want to write a story about a Christmas tree salesperson, I said, but I’m too shy to find out about them.
Maybe, though, Brian said, that part of being a fiction writer — as opposed to a journalist — is not finding out too much about people you’re interested in. It creates preconceptions, when your mind should be free to invent. After all, a person selling Christmas trees can be like anybody. (Like Vincent van Rhyn, a Buddhist adventure traveler. Or Francis, a French-Canadian organic farmer who sells trees with his Chinese wife and Spanish friend.) You can just get the basics of their situation so your facts are straight, but the rest is up to you.
