There’s a new rule in my art therapy strategy: if cigarettes took my time and money, art gets both back. Every minute I would have spent smoking now belongs to the studio. Every dollar that once went up in smoke now goes into paint, paper, ink, and the growing mountain of supplies that promises possibility instead of regret. Even more money goes into advertising, arranging shows and events, and other forms of promotion.
To make it real, I committed big. Six major events this year to sell my work. Six stages. Six deadlines. Six reasons to keep moving forward instead of lighting up.
Of course, commitment is the easy part. Now comes the work.
This time I’ve chosen a new subject: American athletes from this year’s Winter Olympics. Strength. Motion. Focus. People pushing their bodies to the limit in cold air and bright light. It feels right. If they can launch themselves off mountains and glide across ice at 80 miles an hour, I can certainly face a blank sheet of watercolor paper.
My process is its own kind of choreography. I project the image large, trace it carefully with a Sharpie, then build the painting in watercolor. Sometimes I work in low light, letting the image emerge slowly, like it’s developing its own weather system on the page. It’s part precision, part instinct, part trust.
And then there’s the other arena: the computer work.
Managing six shows means applications, image uploads, formatting requirements, file sizes, payment portals, and systems that all seem designed by different planets. Some days it feels less like running an art business and more like assembling a warehouse of IKEA furniture without instructions. You know all the pieces are there. You’re just not entirely sure which screw goes into which hole, and somehow there are always three extra parts and one missing.
In the middle of all this, the old habit still tries to sneak in.
I’ve caught myself plotting and planning cigarettes. Not lighting one. Planning one. The mind is clever that way. It whispers logistics. When. Where. How to get away with it.
But I’ve found a method that works: think it through.
Not the first puff. The whole story.
The health risks I’m already facing. The breathing. The damage. The possibility of making serious conditions worse. Then the social side, too. The people who are supporting me, encouraging me, believing in the work and the progress. One cigarette doesn’t just affect me. It chips away at trust, momentum, and the life I’m trying to rebuild.
And there’s another small but powerful reality.
If I go back to smoking, I lose time. Time that belongs to painting. Time that belongs to building this art career. Time that belongs to the six events, the six chances, the six doors I’ve already opened.
And yes, time that belongs to Whiskey Kitty.
She doesn’t know anything about addiction, deadlines, or lung capacity. She just knows playtime. Attention. Presence. If cigarettes take me away from that, they’re stealing more than health. They’re stealing life in its simplest form.
So when the plotting and planning thoughts come, I let them run all the way to the ending.
The picture isn’t pretty.
And then I go back to the watercolor.
Right now the studio looks less like a peaceful artist’s retreat and more like Olympic training camp. Reference images. Projector. Paper. Paint trays. Event checklists. Deadlines. Computer tabs open like a control room.
But this is good pressure. This is forward pressure.
Every painting is a small victory. Every form completed is a step toward the shows. Every cigarette not smoked is another layer of strength added under the surface.
The goal isn’t just to quit smoking.
The goal is to replace the habit with a life that’s too full, too purposeful, and too exciting to step away from.
Six shows. Winter athletes. Watercolor under dim light. A business being built piece by piece. A cat waiting for playtime. Supporters watching the journey. A future that depends on staying present.
The cravings still visit. But they don’t stay long anymore.
Because the truth is simple.
I don’t have time to smoke.
I have paintings to make.
Once again, I got this. 🎨❄️🐾
by Dan and Bonkers
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