Back when I smoked three packs a day, I thought that if only I could smoke one cigarette a day I'd get all the pleasure there was out of smoking. When I finally managed to quit (using the go-to-Ireland-and-don't-bring-cigarettes method), I discovered that four cigars a year sufficed.
Not that I always smoke that many. This year I had only two: one in March and one the other night.
Cigars being so rare in my life, each one is a special occasion. I buy a very good one and when the time comes, go out into the back yard with a glass of scotch. Then I sit alone, in the night, thinking about whatever I'm currently working on. The Next Novel, in this case. I slowly smoke the cigar, aided by an occasional sip of whisky. I plot as far in advance as I can. And I make notes.
That's my notebook up above with my pen clipped to the right-hand page. I took a moment off from thinking and taking notes to photograph it lying in my lap, very much like a cat. The lights are fortuitous, an artifact of the laser Christmas light system that Sean and I installed this year.
So my year has ended peacefully. Many good things happened this year and I am grateful for them all. I wish the same for you in the coming year. Be happy, be well, be kind to one another.