KELLI
I pumped my foot on the potter’s wheel, my eyes focused on the clay as it spun beneath my hands. It covered my fingers as I moved them with a conscious grip and practiced precision, watching as the shape of the clay transformed before my eyes. I really should have been sleeping, but it was a Monday night, and I was home alone, wide awake after 11 p.m. The bright light above me, giving off a studio-like effect, shone down on my hands, highlighting the intricate patterns I was embossing in the soft, wet surface. There was something so satisfying about feeling the clay turn in my hands on the potter’s wheel, molding at every touch I made. It was the epitome of being creative.
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