The truth is, I haven't stopped taking pottery classes yet. I'm now about half way through my third 8-week session and already working out my schedule to allow for more. I am able to get to the studio on Tuesdays and Saturdays to spend between 6 and 8 hours a week with this new obsession. Yes, I would spend more time at it if I could.
This is an excerpt from the story I'm writing for NaNoWriMo this year. It opens chapter three. Still not sure where the story is going, but it sure is fun.
I wasn't going to do it this year, but I signed up for NaNoWriMo again this year. This is because last week a new story popped into my head and I feel compelled to write it down. I've only a vague idea about where its going, but it is another one about Sarah and the strange houses she encounters. The working title so far is, The house that George Built. This is really back story, about when Sarah first realizes she has paranormal intuitions. Of course, it's all a part of the family curse, but then what isn't? At any rate, I expect to have fun with it.
I ran like hell. Almost made it. The darkening sky took on an ominous tone. Naked trees became fluid, writhing silhouettes in the wind. Between gasps to fill my lungs with the hot air, I imagined that the branches were spelling druidic curses in the air. If only I knew the code. If only there was some magical way to understand the symbols and with a few, choice words mitigate the impending destruction.
And then I stopped. I understood. This was nature. This was cleansing on a grand scale, and this dirty old world deserved nothing less.
The rain came.
After just one pottery class, I've decided that there are many similarities between throwing pots and writing stories. Both are addictive. Both take a lot of practice time and effort to become accomplished. The end result, when done well, is engaging on many levels. There are, however, some significant advantages when learning the craft of clay versus that of writing.
In our imagination all roads lead to an ancient town that caters to travelers such as us. Its dusty streets take us to the old section where the buildings blend with each other and the well-worn pavement. There is a narrow alley that you discovered a long time ago, although hardly anyone else seems to know of its existence. The doors are all closed and unmarked, but it is not difficult to pick out the small one made of oak planks that were ancient when the walls were new. You enter the dark space within quietly, reverently closing the door behind you.
After moving to East Hartford in the late '70s, my friends and I stumbled upon a pottery studio. Being a very part-time dabbler in clay and always interested in any kind of craft, we stopped into the shop. Not only was the work awesome, but the studio offered lessons. I vowed that one day I'd take lessons there and set up my own studio sometime. I had taken some ceramics classes and any time I did, I just wanted to do more of it.
I've never given channeling a lot of thought. It seemed like something other people did out of a desire for attention or something. To open yourself up for channeling, and I was not worrying about whether it was a true possibility or a convenient way to make daydreams seem self important, seems risky. In essence, as I understand it, you are allowing some other entity to use your physical connection with this reality to convey a message. In it's most benign form, that is. You have to wonder about the motives of someone wanting to do that. The someone being channeled, that is.
