by Amanda Smith
One of the ladies in my ceramics class, let’s call her Dee, recently made a set of cat dishes for her friend, each dish featuring one letter of the cat’s name, Mozart.
One fine day in class, we were all struggling. Like really struggling. Unable to center. Unable to throw. Exasperated, Dee left her wheel for the kiln room to check whether the set of dishes had been fired. She reappeared, holding four dishes that spelled Z-A-R-T.
“We’ve lost Mo,” she said. “That’s what’s wrong. Our Mo-jo went missing.”
And we were stuck with Zart.
Let’s be real. The last couple of years had offered more than enough incentive for Mo to pack his inspirational bags and seek greener pastures. Some of us lost our creative Mo early on in the pandemic, while others had managed to hold on, tooth and nail, for longer. But I haven’t met a single creative over the last two years that hadn’t at some point felt stuck with Zart. Deflated. Incomplete.
So what happened in the studio when we discovered the loss of Mo? Each of us dealt with the bad pottery spell differently. Dee is a power-through kind of person. She kept throwing. At the end of the three hours, she had four sloppy piles of clay drying on the plaster table – evidence of four collapsed pots. But she also had two lovely bowls.
Peg decided to abandon the wheel for the day and instead focused on glazing some of her vessels that had been bisque-fired– a differently challenging skill, and a good change of pace.
I turned my back on the blasted wheel and affixed handles to mugs that I had thrown and trimmed previously. On a whim, I decided to carve designs on the mugs. I got lost in the joy of line and form and measurable progress.
The next open studio, Mo was still missing. Dee, Peg and I together decided to hand-build little cheese boards. Collectively we figured out the process, fine-tuned each other’s technique, got expert tips from our studio’s resident master hand-builder and made something pretty cute. Confidence somewhat restored, and bravery bolstered by mutual encouragement, we left the studio rejuvenated that day.
So why am I sharing my ceramic woes with you, dear writer?
Because, just like me, you might have lost your writing Mo. What to do until Mo returns?
Along with the lost bowls, our Mo-jo returned.
Did it have anything to do with those cat dishes? Likely not.
Did it have everything to do with not giving up even when we felt like it? Absolutely.
Keep writing, work on other writing related stuff, fill your well with the frivolous, and commiserate with co-writers. But don’t dare give up. Like a stray cat, Mo will return!
(With special thanks to always inspirational DE and PC.)
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