What seemed like a typical day turned into something else entirely — an unexpected spark of inspiration and a quiet but firm dedication to quit smoking.
The morning began the way most do lately: Whiskey pouncing, biting, and licking me awake with all the chaotic affection a kitten can muster. There’s something grounding about being pulled into the day by a tiny creature who depends on you. No past. No future. Just now.
I did have one or two puffs this morning. Habit more than desire. Muscle memory. The ritual of it.
Then this afternoon, I got a call from the cessation program. They were kind. Informative. Full of useful tools and encouragement. But they kept circling back to the same question:
“What’s your quit date?”
That question has never worked for me.
Setting a quit date feels like scheduling a breakup weeks in advance — and in the meantime, giving myself permission to indulge. I postpone the effort. I bargain. I count down. I smoke “just until.” It turns quitting into a future event instead of a present decision.
Today, something shifted.
Mid-conversation, I said, almost casually, “Why don’t I just quit right now?”
And that was it.
No ceremony. No countdown. No dramatic final cigarette. Just a decision.
For me, that’s the only way it works. Not marking days on a calendar like an inmate scratching tallies into a wall. I don’t want to count the days. I want to be done. I want to move forward without dragging the identity of “smoker trying to quit” behind me.
I’m simply not doing it anymore.
The rain helps. Steady and persistent, it keeps me inside, away from the convenience store, away from impulse. There’s something comforting about weather that creates a boundary for you. A small assist from the universe.
Later, I reserved a room at the Marriott Hotel Downtown Los Angeles for the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, where I’ll be exhibiting this year. It was expensive — but not the kind of expensive that burns away in smoke. Not the kind that leaves nothing behind but ash and regret.
This expense is an investment.
In my craft.
In my future.
In showing up fully.
Every pack not bought is money redirected toward something real. Something lasting.
I’m dedicated to my craft.
Dedicated to my kitten.
Dedicated to kicking it — for good.
Once again, I’ve got this.
Not someday.
Now.
by Dan and Bonkers
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