Just a little pause

Let me start this blog entry with an excerpt of the foreword by Stephen King in his book Night Shift (February 27, 1977. Bridgton, Maine.)​

​Sometimes I speak before groups of people who are interested in writing or in literature, and before the question-and-answer period is over, someone always rises and asks this question: Why do you choose to write about such gruesome subjects?

I usually answer this with another question: Why do you assume that I have a choice?

Writing is a catch-as-catch-can sort of occupation. All of us seem to come equipped with filters on the floors of our minds, and all the filters have differing sizes and meshes. What catches in my filter may run right through yours. What catches in yours may pass through mine, no sweat. All of us seem to have a built-in obligation to sift through the sludge that gets caught in our respective mind-filters, and what we find there usually develops into some sort of sideline. The accountant may also be a photographer. The astronomer may collect coins. The school-teacher may do gravestone rubbings in charcoal. The sludge caught in the mind's filter, the stuff that refuses to go through, frequently becomes each person's private obsessions. In civilized society we have an unspoken agreement to call our obsessions "hobbies". 

Sometimes the hobby can become a full-time job. The accountant may discover that he can make enough money to support his family taking pictures; the school-teacher may become enough of an expert on grave rubbings to go on the lecture circuit. And there are some professions which begin as hobbies and remain hobbies even after the practitioner is able to earn his living by pursuing his hobby; but because "hobby" is such a bumpy, common-sounding little word, we also have an unspoken agreement that we will call our professional hobbies "the arts". 

Painting. Sculpture. Composing. Singing. Acting. The playing of a musical instrument. Writing. Enough books have been written on these seven subjects alone to sink a fleet of luxury liners. And the only thing we seem to be able to agree upon about them is this: that those who practice these arts honestly would continue to practice them even if they were not paid for their efforts; even if their efforts were criticized or even reviled; even on pain of imprisonment or death.
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​Five months ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Motherhood is wonderful, tiring but greatly rewarding. 
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Ceramics is yet again lying dormant, but I feel fine about it. I've realised that I just can't force myself to make ceramics whilst taking care of a baby. It's taken a long time to get to this point (I had a tough pregnancy and was at times physically unable to do anything), but I no longer feel guilty for not creating ceramics. Priorities change. 

But don't worry. Stephen King wrote about private obsessions. Ceramics is mine, Not a day goes by that I do not think of ceramics. More is yet to come!