The kiln reached temperature at midnight and now there is nothing to do but wait for it to cool, which takes longer than seems reasonable and always will.
People assume the nerves fade with experience. They don’t; they sharpen into something more useful. Now I know exactly which pots I’m worried about — the tall jug with the ambitious handle, the bowls glazed a shade too thick — and the worry is really a list of next month’s lessons.
The kiln is the only honest critic I know. It has never once flattered me.
Tomorrow morning I’ll crack the door, and whatever survived will go on the shelf. Whatever didn’t goes in the bucket, and the bucket is where the good ideas come from.