Going away to write is dicey. Ask your Muse first.

Have you ever written in a faraway locale? Hemingway once said "To write about Paris I had to go to Michigan," or something to that effect. Now, I am not Hemingway but I think ol' Ern, or Papa, means that often you can't see a place clearly while you are in it. Do you think that's true?

Going away to write can be dicey. More than dicey, sometimes. You've looked forward to it. To break with your life and write, and then, well. what?

Unseen, the place might be stuffy. Bug-ridden (one friend was attacked by hornets in her retreat place) Falling-down rotten and in a bad location. You'll NEVER be able to work. In fact, this place is so bad, you'll never be able to write again, period.

But if it is not this awful doom it can get you out of the rugged emotional furrows where obligations and daily responsibilities fester and wear down your Muse. On retreat your Muse gets to wander about. Try on new hats and sandals. Make up for lost time. In the best circumstances you can even get some real work done, deep work that leads you somewhere else entirely.

A few years ago after leading one of our adult tours to Tuscany I stopped back to Corniglia in the Cinque Terra to do some revising with a capital R. Though two days is not a long time- time extended once I sank into the village and THE MANUSCRIPT. I desperately needed some inspiration.

Here's the tale of two fires and a Muse!

Yesterday, I arrived. My knees and legs and feet, were so bone-tired especially after the walk up the hill from the train station in the late evening light. I didn't think I could ever, or would ever, want to walk again.

But it was already morning on my first real day in Corniglia. I slept so soundly and dreamed of Great Winds screaming across the Mediterranean. And when I woke, the shutters I thought were closed, were open.

What would my Muse say!? Is the wind my Muse now?

I didn’t know but what a view! From my little portico I could see almost everything. The streets of Corniglia, busy with people and then just as suddenly the streets curled up into paths to the the steep terraced slopes of vineyards. A funny little roller coaster track drops into the vineyards, and a cart chugged by heavy with grapes. At the end of the portico I could just spot the narrow ally way that must lead to the sea. On the hill across from me a garden stepped out and down. White chickens and ducks flurried among the tomatoes.

Don’t mess with your system I said to myself. When I write; cooking always entices the muse. So, here's a little menu of my coaxing the Muse into what I hoped would be blissful submission in Corniglia.

For Saturday lunch – I wandered in the village. To get familiar and to get my bearings. I wanted to set my mouth on something delicious and easy. But no one seemed to want to seat me, a woman alone. Was I misunderstanding? It's been done before I wanted to say. Its okay, I enjoy eating alone and jotting things down on paper. But I shrug and answer their question. No, I do not have a reservation.

So out one door and into another. At a small mercato down the street I seized lettuce, coffee, sugar, milk, pasta, tomato sauce, olives, eggplant, focaccia, pecorino cheese, yellow pepper, fresh basil, and then with my arms loaded to the gills the scent of an olive and tomato pizza stopped me cold. So with one delicious pizza balanced on the top of my provisions I headed back up the hill to La Terrazze. A glass of chianti later, ok, maybe two, found me toasting the muse on the portico with my two very good friends; pizza and roasted eggplant. Then clouds rolled across the sea and sent me into a luxurious nap. Ok muse. Open doors. No cares and settling in. Rain. Blissful drops anointed my transitional slumber. I will see you after my nap. Our nap I said quickly and looked around. I pulled the covers over my head and dropped off to sleep, excited for the great writing session that surely awaited me.

I woke and turned the pages of the manuscript, inviting the Muse to join me. But the muse still slept.

Fire would wake up the Muse, I reasoned. So I put a pot on the stove to hum with a soup. The Muse woke and laughed. You ant fire, ok. There is some secret to the stove, the Muse insisted. And nope, you can’t light it.

I slipped on my sandals and ran down the steps to the village street. Asked at the now familiar small mercato how to get a hold of Mary Angela, the owner of La Terraze.

Mary Angela? Dove?

Si, Senor.

Grande Problema.

There is a problem?

Domani.

Tomorrow?

Si, Senora.

I looked from his face to the baskets of squash, that my Muse spied and seemed intent on me working at the stove so I couldn’t work at the desk. I sighed with understanding. More basilica would help this dilemma. I gathered that my Muse was enjoying that the Italian word basilica meant both basil and church. Anyway, it must be that my Muse had decided that basil would help unlock the stove and entice fire for my soup; eggs, whatever else I thought I might cook.

Next door at the bar, I bought matches. With the basil in one hand, and matches in the other I tried to return to La Terraze but something was happening on the street. I followed the crowd. The little alley way opened up into a alcove. Everyone had gathered at the wall overlooking the sea. The hot apricot sun sat silent hovering above the blue green and slate Mediterranean. Below steep rocks jutted into the sea; similar to how the sea meets Taormina and how Taormina leads to Mt. Etna, the marvelous mountain of fire in Sicily. And in the moment of that memory I had an idea that sealed the ending of my story.

The Muse smiled. If I hadn’t had to figure out the secret of the stove I might not have gone out to see the sunset.

I hurried back to La Terrazze, I found a dial that I hadn’t seen before.

The fire under the soup pot combined a rich broth with onions and crushed tomatoes in the style of arrabiatta, with garlic, fresh basil (lots) and farro pasta.

Evening descended; cloaking some sounds but releasing others. With the shutters closed and the key removed from the inside door, that I feared would have been easy to reach through the window. Another hour passed and I shut the window. It was goodbye to the day, and I worked till 2:30 am. Closing in, distilling and concentrating. Still a bit of rain fell into the sea and the Great Wind made a return engagement outside.

I wondered if anyone was down at the alcove overlooking the sea.

Near morning I woke on and off. At 6 am, 7 :15 and then 8 and every few minutes till 8:30.

Made coffee, opened the cantucci cookies and sat a pear on my plate to observe. I ate on the portico asking, Pear, where is your tree? I watched the couple on the patio below have breakfast. Was it wrong to spy on them? Then she got up and went to the tree. A pear tree. While she was gone from the table his fingers picked up the last cantucci cookie. And ate it.

For lunch I returned to light the fire on the stove again. It was satisfying to see. I stewed thick slices of porcini, garlic, yellow pepper, more stems of basil – sweated in olive oil – then ladled them over cannelloni, ceci beans and leftover focaccia with cubes of fresh pecorino. Wine. Wine not?

On my last stroll to watch the sunset the sea glowed, absolutely glowed at the line of the horizon.

Looking to the west the light blinded me at the moment when the crimson orb hissed into the sea.

I must, one day, live by the sea. And thank my Muse for making me leave and learn the secret of fire.

The End.