This time of year, I’m more of a writer than a potter. My studio’s unheated, so though I can fire pots, I can’t throw or trim them. Too cold. I do, however, dream up springtime pots during the winter months and sketch shapes, decide on glaze combinations, and research what’s going on in the world of ceramics. I also order my supplies. I used to mix my own clay and glazes but, these days, simply purchase them. The glazes arrive in powdered form and need to be mixed with water and sieved. The clay, however, is ready to go, fifty-pound boxes of fun waiting to happen, some a nubbly brown stoneware, some a buttery white. What largely accounts for the clay bodies’ contrasting textures is an ingredient called grog.
Essentially, grog is ground-up, fired clay. Besides adding texture to the clay’s composition, grog prevents warping, reduces shrinkage, and imparts strength. Sculptors who hope to build big pieces are likely to choose a clay body with a chunkier grog, but potters like me prefer finer crushed particles. I’m not throwing six feet-tall vases, after all, and the courser grog would be hell on my hands. My favorite white clay body, though ill-suited for handbuilding, is silky and sumptuous—an absolute pleasure to throw on the wheel.
There’s something evocative about this humble ingredient, grog. Clay’s malleability and plasticity permit a pot to take form and retain its shape, and the possibilities for this shape are many, but no matter what creation the potter finagles, the new holds an element of the old: that previously fired clay.
Maybe the thought of grog appeals to me because I’m a writer and can sense a sort of grog in my body of work. I bet, if you’re a writer, you can identify the grog in yours, too—some element that keeps appearing in your stories because it is so much a part of you, a festering hurt or singular longing, a fear or joy, a weakness or strength. Maybe it sprang from an early incident that “made” you, a time you withstood a crucible’s fire. Those hard, old bits can be burdensome to carry and rough to wield. But they also serve as creativity’s building blocks and help us construct characters, settings, conflicts, and plots.
What is the steadfast source of strength in your writing? The seed that allows your stories to grow? The quality that textures your work, lends it layers and resonance? The grog that makes your creations decisively your own?
I once read that working with clay muddles a potter’s fingerprints. I don’t know if this is true but can attest that throwing pot after pot on the wheel affects my skin: Those fine particles of grog give my hands a regular sanding. Regardless, the possibility charms me. I like to imagine it—losing my distinctive marks to the clay. Or rather, giving them. So that whatever I make holds a piece of me. Melissa mug, Melissa story… My fingerprints are there.
This beautifully introduced me to the purpose of grog as an ingredient in clay and then gently reminded me that we all add an important ingredient to the world, our voice. ❤
Suebee, what a lovely response! Thank you for these thoughtful words–and for reading my post! 🙂
This is gorgeous. “Those hard, old bits can be burdensome to carry and rough to wield. But they also serve as creativity’s building blocks and help us construct characters, settings, conflicts, and plots.” I think you’ve lit on the elusive idea of “voice” in writing. Our grog can be our voice, that singular thing that might make our days that much rougher but that imparts a truth only we can in our stories and poems.
Rebecca, you’re so insightful! Thank you for sharing this wise reflection–and for reading my post, too! Happy writing, friend!
I didn’t know grog affects your skin. That’s interesting, and it is like an artist leaving her fingerprints on her pottery.
Yes, it is! Thank you for reading and commenting on my post, Priscilla! Happy March!