Sometimes I think the clay knows when I'm forcing it. It cracks, slumps, does everything it can to tell me: 'Not this way.' There's a conversation in the resisting. The clay isn't just saying 'no,' it's whispering what IT wants to be. I used to fight that whisper; now I listen for it, even if it means starting over. The body knows, too. It clenches and aches when I'm pushing a story that isn't mine, or a life that isn't mine. The resistance is a map, if I can only learn to read it before the burnout comes.