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Writing Ban
By Michael Harling
It's time to spill my dirty little secret.
I am vehemently opposed to the smoking ban. I believe it represents the worst
sort of governmental interference and do-gooder meddling and has, in my view,
been foisted upon the population by an organized campaign of junk science and
outright lies.
And I'm looking forward to it, because it's going to make me a more prolific
writer.
Years ago, I looked upon time spent in a café or bar as a marvelous opportunity
to sit quietly with my notebook and a tasty beverage. Surrounded by the
comfortable hum of conviviality, the writing seemed to come easier and it
possessed a certain sparkle that writing in private lacked. I filled many pages
while sipping coffee or imbibing ale. Then I discovered cigars.
It wasn't my fault, really; I was led astray by an erstwhile girlfriend who
happened to be a cigar aficionado. At first it was just an occasional smoke, but
then we fell in with a group of avid stogie-philes and were soon meeting up,
sometimes several times a week, for the sole purpose of the ritualized burning
of rolled up leaves. These were fun times, full of good friends and lively
conversation. But no writing.
Even after moving to England and leaving all these friends behind, I still find
myself unable to write while alone in a pub. That's because I'm not really
alone; I have my cigars with me.
Writing while drinking is not difficult; whether using a notebook or a laptop,
words flow between sips, and if a recalcitrant passage takes up a lengthy bit of
time, the beverage will patiently wait. But a cigar demands your attention. It
requires careful cutting, ceremonial lighting, and regular puffing accompanied
by deep contemplation. Consequently, I have thought about writing a great deal
while smoking cigars, I just haven't actually done any.
Cigars are not addictive (honest, I can quit at any time) but they are
habit-forming, and whenever I can light up, I do. I always intend to write, but
somehow fiddling with my cigar and its associated paraphernalia gets in the way,
and all my grand thoughts and resolutions drift away with the white, wafting
smoke.
I have visited places where smoking is outlawed and, oddly, I didn't miss it a
bit. Chatting with friends was considerably easier without a cigar in the way,
and arriving home without my clothes smelling like an ashtray was an
unexpectedly pleasant bonus. So I'm secretly looking forward to the impending
ban even as I outwardly oppose it. I'll welcome the enhanced camaraderie and the
easy flights of beer-fueled fancy that will fill my heretofore empty pages.
Times spent alone in hotel lobbies or pubs while away on business can be put to
better use once I am forbidden from filling the room with noxious fumes, and not
having anything to do with my hands will, I trust, encourage me to pick up the
pen or start tapping the keys. The smoke-haze will clear; the words will return.
I will become reacquainted with the satisfaction I used to know during those
smoke-free years, the satisfaction one can only earn through turning thoughts
into words and words into quality (or at least fairly good) writing, and I will,
I expect, wonder why I ever took up cigars in the first place.
The smoking ban will lift the self-imposed writing ban I have been laboring
under for the past decade, and for that I am truly thankful.
Even so, I still wish the government, and all those who torture us for our own
good, would mind their own bloody business.
Michael Harling is an aspiring novelist and freelance humorist whose work has
appeared in a variety of newspapers and magazines, including The National
Lampoon and the Journal of Forensic Identification. Since becoming an accidental
immigrant, he has turned his attention to writing humorous essays about
expatriate life (mostly while commuting on public transportation, where smoking
is not allowed) and working on his novel. Visit his website, Postcards From
Across the Pond, at
www.Lindenwald.com.
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