November 21,1966 Dear Diary, My English teacher told the class what an excellent narrative writer I am. I didn’t feel too dumb!
She had given the class a creative writing assignment. I like poetry and crafts and so made that my topic.
The Potter
The potter
arranged his ceramics on the counter—glazed mugs, urns, a few carefully
molded statuettes, and turned to his first customers sheepishly. His
hair had fallen forward over his face as he bent down to gather
together pottery but he did not notice. He peered at the waiting couple
as one would gaze through a keyhole.
Both
were appraising the simple beauty of his work—gently rounded and
uniquely textured mugs that invited handling, smooth intricately
painted urns, marvelous, expressive figurines that appeared to be both
joyous and enraged, depending on the play of sun and shadow.
The potter became intoxicated with every word of praise, every muffled exclamation.
When
the wife finally spoke to him he remained strangely still, unaware that
he had been spoken to. Her husband repeated their choice. The gruffness
of his tone startled the potter into wakefulness—they wanted to make a
purchase.
The
potter bowed awkwardly, apologetically, “No, no, I’m sorry, they’re not
for sale. I’m very sorry—excuse me.” And in a sudden, resolute flurry
he began to remove his ceramics from their view, cradling each object
as though it was a frail nestling fallen from a tree.
