The first firing

I had carried the bowl across town in both hands, although it fitted easily inside its padded box. At the workshop, the technician turned it slowly while she checked the base. I followed her fingers and noticed, for the first time, that one side leaned outwards. Then she placed it among cups with rims so fine that they seemed to have been drawn with a pencil. Mine looked heavy beside them, and I wished I had not written my initials so boldly underneath. When she slid the shelf into the kiln, I almost asked to see the bowl once more. Instead, I watched her fasten the door. Until then, every fault could still be touched, smoothed or disguised. Now the result belonged to heat and time, and tomorrow suddenly felt a long way off.

In your own words, explain the writer's thoughts and feelings before the firing begins.