I just noticed that my old intro to myself was as boring as sitting through a church sermon when you are seven years old. Can we say “BOR-ING”? So I am here to remedy that situation. I know on some blogs the intros are written in third person, like they have someone working for them. Let’s be real, I have no one working for me. It’s just me. Victoria.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have grown up in Austin, Texas where I was born, but only spent little over a year there until my father received his PhD in English at the University of Texas (Hook ’em horns!). My dad accepted a position at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Go Tarheels! Or whatever the saying is.) My parents packed up my two older sisters and me and moved to North Carolina where my younger sister was born. We lived there for about two years, just long enough for me to never have a memory of the place, when my father was offered a position that could lead to tenure, in Americus, Georgia. Of course, that’s when I have my first memory. It was of us pulling into the driveway and stepping inside our brick ranch that was surrounded by pine trees and also one large oak in the back yard. I remember the back door with glass slats for the window, that if you turn a crank would open and let the nice spring breeze flow through the screen into our family room. (I also recall tripping on the brick step one afternoon when I was in high school and falling into said window and breaking the glass.) I remember the hardwood floors and how the rooms echoed when we spoke. I remember the pinewood paneling on every wall in the family room and kitchen. We had arrived and would not leave until after I had graduated college from Valdosta State with a degree in Fine Arts (I know -pretty much worthless to most people.) About two weeks before I turned five, it was arranged one day, that I would go spend the night with my best kindergarten friend. When I got home, our new baby brother had arrived and was there for us to ooh and ahh over. So there were five us growing up in a three bedroom, two bathroom house. There were lots of creative moments through the years; making art, writing stories, playing instruments (not really by me) and all of this encouraged by our parents. It was a creative nurturing environment.
I am now in my forties (I know I don’t look it) and I am still so mixed up about what I want to be “when I grow up.” The meme I have seen with the old ladies who still see themselves in 7th grade- that’s me- the perpetual teenager. Ugh. I have been through enough crap in this life of mine to be mature and I know how to be responsible, but I wouldn’t categorize myself as the same as other adults. Maybe because I have no one, but a 16 pound black and white cat to depend on me. I think having children can sometimes make a person grow up fast. I’m still floating around untethered.
This summer I have had a major panic attack over which of my talents to get serious about. My art or my writing. I really need to get immersed in writing my second book. There are literally people dying to read it. My mom calls me up and tells me Miss. Jane can’t wait to read my sequel and asks when it will be finished. The next year (still no sequel) I hear from mom that poor Miss Jane died. Without ever knowing Delilah’s fate after book one. It’s too much pressure, I tell you! I can’t promise you won’t die before it is published, but I can promise I am working on it. And I am also painting. Yes, I choose to drive myself insane, because I just can’t decide. It’s too much pressure, I tell you!
Seriously though, I do love painting and writing with my whole being. And I think the reason I put it off (well I think there are several reasons, but I won’t share them all now) is because when I write and I really give my all, then I don’t want to do anything else in this whole world. I love writing about Delilah. She is a braver version of me. So why would I want to work at my day job to pay my boatload of bills? Make meals? Nah. Feed Mr. Bell? Nah, he has enough flab under all his black and white fluff. But I can’t ignore responsibility. “Meow, Meow, Meow!” So you see, I have to share my time.