• Beneath my fingers, the cold, wet clay feels almost like a corpse's flesh. To escape the nervous feeling, the shivers in my spine, I concentrate completely on my subject. The face, eyes closed, is already molded. Smooth and soft, it's perfect. I'm working on the waves, an ocean crashing down onto the rocks of eternity, a swell originating on the sides of the face. I plan to carve mountains, and perhaps a rising sun in the background, a piece with Japanese influences and the sensual, secretive smile of a geisha.

    I can see the ocean before me, clouds of grey and foamy white caps each wave. My feet are bare and dirty, stained with the sand of a hundred walks across this solemn shore. Seagulls call forlornly above me, flying high overhead, the sun peaking at them through the clouds. I am in a world that is not my own, but instead of my creation. It is familiar, and the salty wind clawing at my cheeks is as well the air in my lungs. This is art. This is creation. This is my passion.

    I snap out of my trance, realizing that a hole has formed in the clay. A hole where one should not be. Oh well. Clearly, this shows the dangers of letting your mind wander while working on a piece. Of course my mentor will have a solution to such little problems as this. It's not ruined, I know that already, but I know as well that my teacher will have an opinion. I go to her, hoping for guidance, for support.

    "What is it?" she asked, cocking her head. Thinking, perhaps, that it is recognizable from a different angle. I cringe, already disheartened.

    "Umm... can't you tell?" my voice sounds hopeful, I know, because I hope she is merely joking.

    "Broccoli?"

    No. It is not broccoli. I want to tell her that and a hundred other things, all of which are quite rude. Oh well, college is approaching faster than I could possibly fathom, and I need to prepare myself for such criticisms. As a creator, I must become familiar with disappointment.

    This is what I learn, standing here, listening to my waves be likened to a tree shaped vegetable. My best work often comes from my mistakes, and maybe it was broccoli in the first place, a vegetarian message. I learn that the world I've created in this piece is my own secret place, and that no one else can enter, or even understand it.

    It's not the finished product that honestly matters. It's the journey. This particularly, I can already tell, will be a rather long journey.