#asavinggrace

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#TeaserTuesday #ASavingGrace #AnnieStone #FreeAtLast #ComingSoon #TabooLove Add to your Goodreads shelf now - http://bit.ly/2ePxore

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#teasertuesday #anniestone #asavinggrace #freeatlast #comingsoon

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4. John Marotta, Jr. // asavinggrace

"People have died in much less poetic ways," said my best friend Brian as he stared at me astounded and mildly impressed. I was perched atop a concrete ledge with my left leg limply hanging off the edge, and my right foot planted flatly so that I could rest my navy blue Moleskine notebook on my thigh and sketch some thoughts. I couldn’t help it. The scenery was too inspiring not to try to capture it in some tiny way before it completely disappeared from the loose-gripped trappings of my mind. Also, we were in the south of France. In Montpellier, to be precise. The next day proved to be an interesting one: there was a dramatic drunken argument between two of my closest friends; a seemingly timeless midnight soiree involving fireballs, accordions, and waltzing; and it ended with the lights going out (along with my pulse) in a narrow stairwell just as we entered a strange, but polite, Frenchman’s apartment. The following morning, after obtaining a café au lait, we settled into a charming park to have our breakfast and stretch our legs. In an effort to put down the experiences of the prior day I stood at a podium-like structure with my pen and aforementioned notebook. Ninety minutes. That’s how long I stood there writing, stopping only to turn the tiny pages. With the sun beating down upon me, and sweat dripping from my forehead, I couldn’t stop until it was all written, all excised from my mind.

It was a year and a half prior to that trip, while studying abroad in Greece, that I began the habit of taking this sidekick notebook with me anytime I went anywhere. I’ll never forget the seven hour boat ride from Athens to Santorini. The boat departed the port of Piraeus around 3:30 am, and I was the only person in tow awake during the magnificent sunrise. I sat on the deck alone, with mist kissing my face, and notebook resting in my lap, filling the pages with impressions of the indescribable beauty that lay before me. Out there on the Aegean I began my own odyssey, embarking upon a creative journey in which I’m still partaking.

“You look pensive, like you’re writing poetry or something,” said my buddy Jake in jest as he goofily approached me. “Actually," I replied, “That’s exactly what I’m doing.” He laughed heartily in disbelief. I can’t blame him—what kind of grad student studying public policy pens poetry in between running regressions and writing policy briefs? So goes my dual existence. Policy analyst by day, wrestling with tragically flawed data. Scribe by night, being pinned to the wall with words that are never quite poignant or insightful enough. Despite my romantic stories of death-defying scribbling and self-revelatory moments out on the sea, most of my writing occurs in my bedroom during the infinite time between dusk and dawn. When I can’t sleep. When the only way to get the words out of my head is to place them gently upon the page. What has remained constant during my personal writing journey is the undeniable impact of place: every sentence that I write is the product of the physical environment that surrounds me, from the mundane to the remarkable.