When I was a little girl I never fancied myself growing up to be a writer. I wanted to be an artist, famous preferably. As I grew, my dream evolved. I still wanted to be an artist, but my art gradually took different forms.
All through school I expressed myself through my art work. I drew and painted and once in high school took every art class I was allowed to. I loved art, and was totally driven. At the same time I became interested in music. I spent all of my teenage years going to Oak Ridge Boys concerts with my mom. If they were anywhere close, we were there. Even when they weren’t close, we were there. My mom loved them, and loved to travel and took great pleasure in combining the two. I knew I wasn’t very musical even though I always sang in the choir and enjoyed it. What really fascinated me was running the sound system. When it came time to choose colleges, my art took a back seat and my desire to be apart of the exciting music business took center stage.
It didn’t take me long to realize that my heart wasn’t really in it, and I followed my heart back home to Indiana. Once again the passion for my art screamed to be noticed. I enrolled in graphic design school part time and followed my dream. I was dedicated and completely focused on the brass ring until my mom got sick. At that point taking care of her took more and more of my time and my art began to slip back into the shadows. By the time she died, I knew I had no more desire to draw, paint, or be perfect. I was consumed with grief. At that point in my life I simply knew that my days as an artist were over. My heart had shifted gears and my life drifted for several years while I struggled to find my way.
I learned a lot during that time period. I learned that I liked doing things that had no grey areas. Either it was right or wrong with no in between. Art is measured by other’s opinions. I found when I created my art; I put entirely too much of my soul into each piece along with the blood, sweat, and tears. Each criticism became a personal attack instead of encouragement to perfect my work. I realized that kind of system drove me bloody insane. I could not do it anymore.
At that point I realized that what I really wanted when I grew up was pretty simplistic. I wanted to be happily married, have a home of my own, and be someone’s mommy. Providence knows women all over the world have managed to accomplish that, so surely I could. All of a sudden, it seemed like my lofty ideals that once meant so very much no longer mattered. I wanted to be a wife and mother and that became the number one priority on my list.
At this point in my life, I no longer draw or paint. It is not that I can’t, it is that I choose not to. Instead I write and paint with my words. Paired with the perfect visuals and the perfect music to illustrate them to my satisfaction, I find myself still painting a fabulous picture. This picture is much more satisfying and can be perfected with spell check. Maybe that is why I feel compelled to do it. I have finally found an outlet for my creativity that works for me. It is fun, and I like to have fun. I like to laugh. I am simply incapable of acting pious and like I have a broomstick rammed up my a$$. I like to act nuts. I am not sure what I want to be when I grow up or that I even want too, but I think I am headed in the right direction until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.