Why I Track the Days
At the bottom of every Pottery Dailies post, I list how many days I have left if I live to be 86. Last I checked, I was over 540 posts in. The count is there to remind me: this isn’t a dress rehearsal. That urgency comes from Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a book that shaped my mindset. Apart from pots and the factory job, I love books—especially mythology, world religion, and philosophy.
Joseph Campbell’s Power of the Myth cracked something open in me over 25 years ago. I discovered Campbell through a professor at Keystone Junior College. She let us sit in on her religion class even if we weren’t paying students. Like Carl Jung, she believed you’d absorb what mattered. That generosity changed my path. After that, I studied ancient Near Eastern texts, read the Dead Sea Scrolls, toured temples in Egypt, and gradually stepped out of a strict evangelical background. What I found instead was a more layered, mythic understanding of the world—and my place in it.
The First Pot That Mattered
The first pot that ever meant something to me? A blue pouring pitcher I made in Bill Turchi’s Ceramics II class in 1996. It’s still in my mom’s china cabinet. It’s got a spout, a hand-pulled handle, and was fired in a gas kiln. I used to dig through books in the library, learning form by form—this was before the internet became a thing. My parents kept all my early pots, and I see them whenever I visit. They remind me how far I’ve come.
Why “Make Work That Matters” Matters
On hard days in the studio, I remember the people I’ve been able to help through this work. Sometimes the income from a pot has helped someone keep the lights on. Sometimes it’s just given someone a sense of connection. Charity, empathy, and community are baked into Creek Road Pottery. That’s why I say I make work that matters—for people who care. That might not be everyone. And that’s okay. I make work for myself and one other person. Always.
When I Almost Gave Up
There was a time I walked away from pottery. I didn’t have a studio after school. Student loan payments were crushing. Everything went into storage. I had just finished an apprenticeship at an all-women’s pottery—a powerful, complex time. The ending was difficult, but I carry deep respect for the artist and everything I learned there. Eventually, I went back to finish my BFA at Marywood University. Now, years later, I’m rebuilding the very wood kiln once fired by my former professor Matt Povse—gifted to me, full circle.
Working Pots Around a 12-Hour Shift
Potters don’t need permission. We make. That’s it. I work 12-hour rotating shifts at the paper factory. It’s a 2-2-3 schedule—two days on, two off, three on. That cycle dictates everything: what I make, how fast I dry it, when I fire. I’ve learned to be efficient. My glazes are simplified. My firings are calculated for effect—carbon trapping, flame path, combustion experiments. Even my lack of inventory is a habit born of just-in-time production at the factory. But I’m trying to change that now, slowly building stock between shows.
Why I Love Firing Pots
Firing is my favorite part of the process. It’s where the magic happens. I’ve been experimenting with carbon trapping and reduction firing—adding combustibles to the kiln during shutdown or mid-firing, capturing the smoke in the glaze. It creates layers—texture beneath oxide beneath smoke. Sometimes I even see purples in broad daylight. I want to start adding cuneiform from the Epic of Gilgamesh under the glaze, so someone who studied ancient Near Eastern texts might notice and say, “I know this.”
Studio Rituals, Cry Piles, and Mugs
There’s no ritual except coffee. Time is tight, so I often enter the studio on the edge of fatigue. Sometimes I stay up all night throwing. There’s always a cry pile—pots that didn’t make it. But they’re part of the process. If you’re not failing, you’re not learning. Writers revise. Potters do too. And yes, mugs are my home form. There are a million ways to make a mug, and I’ve only seen a few. They pay the bills and hold the soul.
Writing as Pottery
Writing the Pottery Dailies every day has been one of the most valuable disciplines of my life. I’m building a record—not just for readers, but for myself. One day, I hope to pull together a book. But the writing itself is the real work. I surprise myself sometimes. Insights arrive mid-sentence. But I don’t dwell. There’s always another day. You keep going. Many over perfect. That’s the truth for pots and for words.
On Storytelling and Community
Some of my favorite moments come from trail events and small shows—people visiting my little shop, choosing mugs, sharing stories. I’m learning how to lead my own trail now. It’s a challenge. But tension is a good thing. It tells you you’re trying something that might not work. And those are the only things worth doing. The pots carry layers of story: the one I try to tell, the one the buyer imagines, the one they pass along. And every now and then, they all align.
Fermentation & Future Projects
Right now, I’m excited about brewing beer in handmade fermenters. I want to inscribe ancient text into the clay. Maybe Gilgamesh. Maybe something from Ugarit or Canaan. Fire it high. Serve it slow. That’s the kind of project that makes my hands want to move again. My friend Richard has the resources. I’ve got the kiln. I just need to start.
Last Thoughts: Start Now
If you want to do something, start now. Not tomorrow. You could fall over getting the mail. Time is short. And if the muse is going to help you, it will be after you begin—not before. So start something today. Even if all you can do is show up. That’s what I did here. And that’s what I’ll do again tomorrow.
Thanks for reading.
You can follow the journey here on the Creek Road Pottery Blog, subscribe to The Pottery Dailies on Substack, or stop by the studio and say hello. You don’t have to think like everyone else. In fact—if everybody’s thinking alike, somebody isn’t thinking.
Alford Wayman
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