Saturday I had a Christmassy time selecting a huge, gigantic, behemoth Christmas tree. It was a surprise for my kids. We’ve had the artificial tree many years now, but I’ve been pining (pun intended) for the smell of my hometown (Seattle) in my house. So I surprised our family with a 10-foot fraier fir. I got to talking with the sweet man who helped me tie down the tree. He’d been a marriage and family therapist for many years and was now retired. I told him what I did. “Really?” he said. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But I don’t have talent. You need talent, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s also just a lot of work.”
“What do you write?”
“I write parenting books and novels.”
“Romances?” He asked. “Because I love romances.”
“No,” I told him. “Southern novels. I like to tell folks they’re like Oprah books, but with hope.”
“I’d like to read one,” he said.
So I handed him my card. He secured my tree. We waved goodbye. I drove off to my home, smiling because of the surprise on the top of my van, and the smile of the retired man who seemed genuinely interested in my trade.