I stopped writing after about a hundred pages or so.
Not writing would be my way of giving up cigarettes.
The will to write will be stronger than the will to smoke, I said.
Six weeks later I stopped smoking.
Only thing was, no longer smoking, I didn’t feel like writing either.
Months rolled by.
I no longer played in the band with Leon and Oliver because of the effect it had on my buzzing ears.
One time even, in August, I stopped drinking for a few days after a terrible bad hangover. I’d been drinking for three days on end, dawn till dusk.
This hangover was not a headache or a feeling poorly, but a literal madness. A glandular nightmare.
Around that time, at work, I got promoted to Team Leader.
“But!” you say. “You already stopped smoking years ago when you were twenty three. Remember? The precise same moment you fell into a coma. And when you woke up twenty five years later, now forty eight years old, you were naturally by such time a confirmed non-smoker!”
There are so many things we don’t know.
But look. I’m writing again.
