create the idea. That can be hard. That is when you are waiting for the muse. Perhaps writing is the same?”
“Pretty much,” I say as I finish the rest of the drink, a nice buzz picking up. “Sometimes the book is there, somewhere, already.” I gesture to the space above my head. “It’s already a thing and you just need to transcribe it. You’re like a medium, writing down messages from some other life. And other times…”
“It sucks.”
I laugh and give him a sly smile. He gets it. It’s so rare to find someone who knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Yes, sometimes it just sucks.”
He tilts his head, eyes raking over my face, then raises his glass. “Here is to our muse, then. May she bless us both.”
I raise my empty glass and he finishes the rest of his. He swallows and then plucks my glass from my fingers. “I shall get you a refill.”
“Actually,” I say quickly as he starts toward the house. “I think I’m going to make another attempt at writing tonight. I’m inspired now.” Or at least determined.
His face falls slightly. “You can still have another drink for inspiration?”
I shake my head. “I better not or I’ll be tempted to go to bed. But perhaps I’ll have another espresso to take to my room.”
“Of course,” he says, and we head inside the house, the sun setting at our backs.
Eight
Claudio
Despite my blathering on about the methods of my art to Grace a few nights ago, the muse has been refusing to show her face today and every day before. Oh, she’s here. I can tell. It’s brewing, this need to create, even if I can’t identify it, even if I can’t see it. I can feel the vibrations in my bones.
The door to my studio vibrates on its hinges from frantic knocking.
I shut my eyes, drawing in a long breath. I know it’s Vanni. Grace would never dare to disturb me when my studio door is closed. I’ve learned that about her these last few days. She knows creation is sacred. She’s been keeping to herself, writing, while I’ve been doing what I can in here. If this was a competition between us, however, I’m pretty sure I’d be losing. She has found her muse, but mine is still shy. It doesn’t help that it’s my job to be a father first. Art must always come second.
“What?” I say loudly, trying not to sound angry at the interruption.
The door opens and I look over my shoulder to see my son poking his head in.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry.
“What is it? I’m trying to work.”
Vanni looks at the lump of clay and the mess of sketches across the table. Generally the clay would have taken shape by now, but it’s just a giant blob with my knuckle indents in it.
“That doesn’t look like anything,” he comments glibly, walking over.
“Because I keep being interrupted,” I tell him. “What is it, Vanni?” I repeat, trying to sound more patient this time.
He throws his arms out, his head back, and wails, “I’m booooooooored.”
I exhale and spin around on the stool to face him. “You’ve read all your books already?”
“The Tipler Cylinder is bunk,” he cries out. “It’s impossible, physically impossible, to create an infinitely long cylinder! In space!”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, because Vanni whines a lot when he’s bored. His brain needs constant stimulation or he just sort of falls apart. This is why I wish his school stayed in session all summer. Instead, they get out earlier than they should.
“Okay, well, we can get Emilio to come over and you can help him—”
“Nooooooo.” He throws his arms dramatically against the table, burying his head.
“Look, I need to create something,” I tell him. “You know I do. This is work.”
“Maybe Grace will pay attention to me,” he mumbles.
“No,” I say sharply, enough that he lifts his head in alarm. I clear my throat. “No. Grace is here as our guest.”
“She’s Mom’s guest.”
“Regardless, she is our guest now. She needs to write. I need to work.”
“You weren’t supposed to be working right now anyway,” he points out, his fingers tracing over the abstract sketches I’ve made. “We should be on a boat on the Mediterranean with Toni. Like we are every year.”
“Last year we were in a cabin in Austria.”
He shoots me daggers. “And this year was supposed to be on a boat. But no, Toni had to break his