Panic at the Pottery Wheel: The Joy and Terror of a Creative Leave of Absence

Well, folks, it happened. The dream is real. The escape hatch has been pulled.

As of October 1st, I am officially on a three-month leave of absence from my actual job. Three glorious months stretching out before me like a fresh, white canvas... which, incidentally, is exactly what the terror looks like.

My official end date is January 1st. That's 92 days. 2,208 hours. 132,480 minutes of pure, unadulterated, unstructured time.

My plan? It’s a beautifully ambitious, slightly delusional itinerary of creative self-discovery:

• Writing: Finally finish the dystopian novel where the only surviving commodity is lukewarm coffee.

• Painting: Attempt to create something that doesn't look like a disgruntled toddler’s finger painting.

• Pottery: Mold clay into beautiful, functional objects... or at least something that holds water and doesn't explode in the kiln.

This is the life I’ve always wanted! The dedicated artist! I spent the last months telling colleagues, friends, and anyone who would listen, "Oh, I'm taking a creative leave. I'm going to focus on the work."

And now, with the first crisp October morning upon me, a single, horrifying thought has settled deep in my stomach, like a rogue lump of clay that refuses to be centered:

Shit, now I have to do something.

This is the paradox of the "creative break." For so long, the lack of time was an artistic shield. "I can’t write because I have to answer these emails." "I can’t paint because I have that meeting." My day job was the perfect, legitimate excuse for the fear of failure. It was the elegant "out." I was a potential genius, perpetually thwarted by The Man.

But now, The Man has let me go. The office shackles are off. My schedule is a vast, empty field of possibility, and there is no one to blame but the reflection in the mirror holding the slightly terrified paintbrush.

I have nowhere to be but in front of the blank page. No deadlines but the ones I set, which are currently being ignored by my brain in favor of googling, "How long does it take to become a good potter?" (Apparently, longer than three months, which is just great.)

So, if you’re looking for me, I'll be in the office, surrounded by half-formed mugs and aggressively-edited chapter drafts, battling the inner voice that keeps whispering, "You know, you could just watch all eight seasons of that obscure Scandinavian crime drama..."

Wish me luck. I’m going in. And if you hear a small, frustrated shriek coming from a room that smells faintly of turpentine and wet earth, don't worry, it’s just the sound of a dream coming true.