Show temporarily canceled.

Blocked writer overcomes; brings you the ongoing crap below.

Does it for the first time WITHOUT chewing tobacco.

CWC - the greatest distance in life is the space between a man's heart and mind. Let not your heart be troubled and set your mind free... you don't need the Nic Bitch. You only miss the good-old times together.

You can write and you do it damn well! I feel like I'm reading a movie script already!

Stay strong bro... you've always had what it takes and you can't take that away!

Preciate the words of wisdon and support. Chapter 4 down!

Note to self:

In quitting, it's one day at a time.

In writing, it's one block at a time.

Chapter 5 is down.

Still rough and raw overall, but Chapter 6 is down.

Added "addendum" to Chapter 6--without chew.

Chapter 7 down. No chewing tobacco in cheek. I'm proving to myself that it is possible.

Stay on my case, fuckers. It ain't easy to quit chewing tobacco ... and it ain't easy to write a first-draft novel. Chapter 8 and 9 down. Just trying to move the story forward--one day at a time.

How many chapters are you anticipating?

Why, sick of the story already?

My outline calls for about 25 or 26. The chapters are going to start getting longer as I go while the pace will pick up. There won't be as many quick cut-aways. Our mongoose and cobra will be stuck in close quarters and the psychological stress factors will start to force intense conflict between them.

Deleted. Mission aborted. Publicly, that is.

You know the drill. It's one of steady discipline--the drill itself never delivering gratification.

Chapter 11 down.

Will give you a tour of the next-generation space station next. Soon I hope, but it's exhausting work. Madness.

CWC

Chapter 12 down. First blood drawn.

Chapter 13 down. We are experiencing technical difficulties, please stand by.

Whack the side of the TV... always worked for my dad... even if the trouble was NOT in his set!

Still experiencing difficulties?

I've taken the storytelling exercise offline--but I am still working furiously on it. My intent was to draft the story here on the site (just for the scrutiny of QSSN members) but then I realized the story was appearing on the Worldwide Web for the world at large and I didn't want that. If and when I find a publisher, I can update everyone on possible release of the novel. Thank you.

It was searchable or someone was cutting and pasting?

Shit--nobody ever seems to be using the Live Chat feature on this site.
Donnie, thank you for the comments you left me, I only just saw them now.
My muse is here so I'll take the next chapter off-line. Focusing without dip is hard, but you just gotta start typing and FOCUS without it!

When I'm at home I always keep a lookout for someone to jump into the chat. If I see someone in there I always go. When I'm at work, like now, I am unable to use the chat function.

You haven't heard a murmur from me in this column for a while. This update is as much for me as is it is for anyone. Seven pages of my latest novel completed tonight, all offline. That ties a record for output for one day. What's amazing is that my concentration and productivity are now rivaling states only previously achieved while dipping.

I hope to make the fruits of these "chewlessly gutsy" efforts available to any interested subscribers on the site someday for feedback. But for now it's rest up and prepare for tomorrow.

It did help immensely that I just got the most spot-on, kick-ass review on Amazon for my first book (2007). If it was one of you, thank you!

CWC

Research ongoing, and a couple of new pages tonight/this morning. I'm jacked up on coffee, but not dipping. Fight of my life, fellas.

Hope all of you party animals drank responsibly tonight: One delicious Spaten Premium was all for me. See you tomorrow.


Sincerely,

Cope
Without
Cope

Three more pages tonight, without a dip. I do admit to longing for the habit tonight, but I gutted-it-out-without.

Until the next time, fockers.

A couple new pages yesterday and I continue my yarn tonight. The late-great Michael Crichton once planted a very practical piece of advice in a USA Today magazine story. He said he motivated himself to write with a chant of "Ass2Chair, Ass2Chair, Ass2Chair." What I think he meant was to turn off the TV and tune out all that's happened during one's day. Plug yourself into that chair and start typing.

See ya later.

"Ass2Chair. Ass2Chair. Ass2Chair. ..."

I'm fucking jacked!!!

Gearing up for a Friday night writing session and I just know my muse is going to visit me. Tonight's focus: a scene involving a space walk, or extravehicular activity (EVA), which is something I've been researching for several months.

Of course, I'll have to ignore the Buerhle vs. Sabathia matchup and the Pats-Redskins preseason game, but it'll be worth it, especially since I haven't been able to write a word of fiction due to my day job taking me into the night just about every day this week.

Nothing beats the Friday night writing session, the freedom to put my corporate slavery on hold and fasten myself into that chair and create a world. Yeah, nothing beats it ... err ... nothing except casual sex, which I haven't had since I got married (drumroll please...)

Took goal seriously tonight. Reviewed my compilation of research at coffee shop. Then came home and produced first three pages of a difficult-to-execute scene.

I bet the founders of QSSN never thought their site would do so much good. I'm keeping tabs on my life, and keeping myself disciplined and focused on healthy and positive things.

Only problem is I think I forgot to go to bed. Must be the Grande-sized Sumatra and tonight's visit from Miss Muse. Guess it's time to say good night. Napoleon thought sleep was overrated, too.

Since my last post, two attempts to write fiction have failed miserably. Unable to get a word down, distracted by television, music, an overall discomfort, etc.,

Spent some time with the family Saturday and Sunday, so now it's my last chance to write before the demanding work week starts again on Tuesday.

It's easy to assume that this column is sprung from vanity, but I want you to understand something--I'm treating this column as yet another rollcall, one that is part of my commitment to you. This ensures that I do all of the things I'm supposed to be doing, all of which I have to "answer to" you guys on. My life goal of writing novels is part of that, and chewing tobacco or excessive boozing is no longer going to be an unhealthy support system for that goal.

I commit to put down a few more pages tonight or my head will explode from trying.

CWC

Nice breakthrough. Chapter finished. Mission accomplished.

Halfway done with first draft.

Fuck you, Nic Bitch, and fuck you, Writer's Block.

Over and out.

Another few pages toward my goal tonight. Back to the day job tomorrow.

Am proud that I used time wisely this Labor Day weekend. Family first, and cramming in 7 fresh pages total after the kids went to bed.

"No one has time to write a novel, but some people do anyway."
~ Some single mother of three--who landed a deal with a major publisher.

(This column is no different than any other here: feel like I'm talking to myself.)

Anyway, busy work week (with lots of late nights) is complete. Now, it's time to get back to what I love.
I commit to one chapter tonight, fueled on coffee, not booze or dip.

Don't you get the best conversations that way?

I talk to myself all the time, and read a lot--I get my best ideas that way.
The site is great, don't you think?
QSSN's site is pretty good too.

Looking forward to working on the novel tomorrow ... with nothing to sabotage me. Committed to 3 or 4 pages after a day in the corporate grind, and committed to keeping that shit out of my mouth. Cancer is the biggest enemy of my beautiful muse.

Strapped in and ready to write.

My day of atonement comes tomorrow when I re-enter the HOF.

So good to know I'll join many of you who have already reached this milestone through determination and a bit of physical and psychological suffering. And then to maintain it. That's what I've got to prove this time around, that neither unreasonable people nor deadline stress nor challenging family issues nor the need for personal gratification from the cancer-causing stimulant can stop me in my quest to remain quit.

My beguiling muse isn't here yet but maybe if I shut down this browser, open the in-progress manuscript, and start typing, I'll channel her, and she'll germinate my thoughts. Transform those keystrokes into the flow of a story.

Committed to a few more pages tonight.
One scene at a time.
One day at a time.

CWC

Channeling her again.

"No one has time to write a novel, but some people do anyway."

Tobacco Wars: The Last Hope

By CopeWithoutCope

(((For tonight at least, I decided to postpone my latest novel, "Space Games," a k a, "Zero-G TV," for this important service announcement. If anyone has any objections to their names being used for this fun exercise, or to the way their names are being used, please PM me.)))

Chapter 1--The Cave Man

It was nearly dusk when Redman1 stepped down from his dusty Ford Bronco, onto the pavement.

He felt shaky, and as he walked toward the Pay N Go, the gas station's other patrons ALL seemed to be watching him. A young man in a Diamondbacks baseball cap glanced up from pumping gas and then cast Redman an intimidating glare. A businessman wearing an odd trenchcoat eyed him as he entered the store, then coughed and reached for the Vicks.

Redman1 put his head down and veered off toward the counter. At the register, he glanced back at one of the store's security cameras.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked nervously.

Redman smiled and snuck a look over the clerk's head, at the television monitor. In black and white, no one watched from in back of him. He turned and nodded to the clerk. "Yes, I'll have some Kodiak, please."

As the clerk searched the rack, Redman turned and inspected the three far corners of the store. A deliveryman was placing soft drinks into a refrigerator case; a middle-age woman sampled the magazines. To Redman's relief, the spooky businesman had left.

"Here ya go," the clerk said. "Five dollars even."

Redman took the tin and hid it in his pocket, then slid a bill across the counter.

"Thank you," he murmured and lowered his head toward the door.

***

Flavius nibbled at the cuticle of his pinkie finger as he watched the QSSN Security Monitor. He shook his head softly, a little sadly. But when he finally spoke, his voice was loud, authoritative. "Agent Holden, are you almost there?"

Some static, then: "Almost. The crummy plane was late, and then the taxi ride from Phoenix took longer than I thought. And of course I had to drive by the park to see the ducks but--"

"Where are you now?"

"On foot. I see our target."

"Good." Flavius chewed at his nail some more. "Truckerick, are you in position?"

More static, then: "I see the homo. He's got the goods. Want me to bash his head in?"

A moment of hesitation, then the pinkie left Flavius' lips. "No--take him alive. We may need him later."

From the 18-wheeler parked alongside the Interstate's curb, and from the bushes behind the Pay N Go, Agents Truckerick and Holden converged on their quarry.

***

The Native American had a lot of fight in him. He managed to kick Holden's shin, and then land a glancing blow against Truckerick's solid jaw--before Holden recovered enough to tackle the smaller but compact man. Truckerick seized a handful of Redman's black mane and slipped the burlap sack over the liar's head. He started to radio Flavius but the injun' still fought. Kicking. Flailing. Yelling. Someone might hear! Truckerick remembered the botched intervention in Pittsburgh--the police had almost ... Gotta act fast--

He lifted the burlap bag away from Redman's face and stuck an unwrapped, super-sized Slim Jim into the man's mouth. "Here, you want to chew on something?! Chew on this!"

Holden duct-taped the Slim Jim to Redman's face. "Good to go, Rick."

Truckerick lifted the flailing prisoner and carried him across the parking lot. Moments later, he and Holden stuffed the man into the back of Rick's truck.

"Hey, what's going on over there?"

Rick and Holden spun. Standing at the edge of the pumps, a bystander stared at them, his hands on his hips.

The Teamster/Vietnam vet thought quickly--"Bail bondsmen. Bounty hunters. This scumbag jumped bail."

The bystander nodded skeptically.

"Yeah," Holden reinforced. "The crummy guy did some really bad things. We're making sure he doesn't get away."

Inside the truck's rear cabin, they tied Redman up and placed a pillow under his head. Then, they jumped down, and Truckerick slammed the hatch shut. They got inside the truck and hit the Interstate at seventy-five.

Truckerick lifted his CB and squeezed the sides. "Cat's in the bag, Flavius."

Back in Texas, Flavius nibbled at his pinkie nail, then pulled it from his lips and stared at his wet, dessicated cuticle. "Good work, men," he said, almost absently. "I'll see you in the morning."


***

Killerattorney and Luke's Dad flanked their fearless leader, waiting for him to deliver their latest instructions. It was a big world out there, a lot of vice, and chewing tobacco was at the core of it. Emergencies were always popping up all over the globe. So many urgent engagements, so few resources. Tonight was a perfect example. The Nic Bitch had them stretched thin.

"Killer?" Flavius said, removing his pinkie from his mouth. His cat, Fluffles, a silver-point Persian purred on his lap. He stroked her soft and furry back.

The attorney clicked his heels.

"Where is Ranger?"

"He's got the night off," Killer said. "He's pumping out his basement in Atlanta, and then he's going to have a quiet dinner with his wife."

Flavius shot the lawyer an incredulous look. "Oh, you think?" The leader's voice heightened into loud hiss. "Don't I have like fifty fucking interventions to deal with tonight? Get him on the phone!" Flavius shouted. "Now."

Killer shrugged. "Where do you want him to touch down?"

Even Fluffles seemed incredulous. With large elliptical eyes, she stared at Killerattorney as if he were pulling her hind paw.

"Have him perform reconnaissance on that newbie from February--DefinitelyQuit, is it? He's right in Ranger's home state."

Killer nodded and left the room.

"Number Two?"

"What is thy bidding, master?" Luke's Dad breathed into his helmet.

"I want you to go and take a number two."

"Yes, my master."

Luke's Dad started to leave.

"Oh, and Number Two?"

Luke's Dad stopped at the door. "Yes, my master."

Flavius rolled his eyes. "Would you stop it, with that 'yes, master.'"

"Yes, my master."

Flavius moaned, his head falling to his lap. A faceful of fur. Fluffles! The leader coughed, then sneezed several times in succession. "Never mind--get out, just get out!"


Chapter Two--Deliverance (no, not the one with Ned Beatty!)

Ranger paddled his kayak toward the riverbank. Less than 50 yards away, he could see his target, just a kid--twenty years old, just as sure as the kid was ten. The kid's name was DefinitelyQuit--a quitter of seven days. He'd told his quit group that he was going camping and not to worry--he wouldn't let them down. Ha! Ranger thought. That's why I just saw you go into the bait-and-tackle store and buy a pouch of Beechnut.

The kid had built a fire and had a buddy with him. But that's not what Ranger's highly trained eye now focused on--beyond the two young men and their campfire--lay the true threat. Something was moving in the pine trees behind them, sneaking, closing in on the two unsuspecting campers. Ranger unsheathed his crossbow, removed an arrow and tightly closed his left eye ...

To be continued???

The LD reference made Coke Zero shoot out my nose.

I'm worried LD is going to shoot me, but it's all in good fun. Let me know if I should continue with this light-hearted spoof that shows the importance of organizations like QSSN. So glad I found this place. I think I searched the Web for something like it in the early 2000s and came away disheartened and still dipping.

CWC

I looked a few years ago - this site was up - but I could only find sites that were just fact sites. The info on those sites looked as if they had used a smoking site as a template and just replaced "SMOKE" and "CIGARETTE" with "DIP OR CHEW".

Well, geez, I thought it was funny.

Regardless, the jury has spoken and I am now sentenced to return to writing "Space Games" offline.

Probably for the best.

My only regret is I won't get to show you Truckerick blasting the hairy ass off of Fluffles and as punishment being made to stand in the isolation chamber. Oh well, your loss.

Almost time to sign off from the day job, put my family to bed and continue with my draft novel, "Space Games." Can't wait.

Tonight may be my last chance to work on it for a while as I have a product launch coming up at work and a relocation to deal with.

"No one has time to write a novel ... but some people do anyway."

CWC

Wrote a scene Sunday and will continue to build the story tonight. One scene at a time in fiction, just as it's one day at a time when it comes to quitting. Stay strong, brothers.

CWC - I'm proud of you, man! You keep going into the darkness and taking one step at a time. Even though you may not know the results from one step to the next, you keep pressing forward!

Stay strong and committed my friend - the pain can only last so long, before you will become numb... your reward for enduring the pain is coming soon.

Never forget - the greatest distance in a man's life is between his heart and mind... depending upon the situation, choosing which one wins is the key element that distinguishes the winner from loser.

With your level of internal reflection, temporary cockiness and subdued humbleness, you would have made a great soldier! Drive on brother!

Thanks Ranger. OK, back to work.

Bye the way--are there any SURGEONs on the site? I need a piece of information for the story--so it's authentic.

I'm no surgeon, but my wife calls me "smooth operator"...

You mean, smooth masturbator.

Seriously, Ohioman, I think you are a great asset to this site. You are always there to support struggling individuals and cheer successful quitters as they achieve important milestones. You keep the dialogue going when there's little else to turn to.

After writing for Whitey all week to put enough bread on the table for my family, I can now finally, at 10:37 US ET, Friday, get back to Space Games and see if I can turn the concept into something folks like you would want to read, or watch.

Ass2Chair. One keystroke after another. One day at a time. Muse is here, here we go ...

Serious novelists do not take Saturday nights off. Authors who aren't born or married into wealth have to squeeze their fiction writing sessions into slivers of time between the long hours they work at their day jobs. Exhausted, most give up before they can leave their artistic stamp, or reach their "childish" goal of starpower or riches.

I am not most.

Keep squeezing those periods of writing when you can. It can't be easy at times but hopefully the reward will be worth it. I'll buy it when you finish.

Me too!
=D
My mom's writing a cancer book right now. I can sorta see what you're going through. GOOD LUCK!

Thank you for your recent notes, Donnie and Da Kid.

I'm back from the "relatives," and not wholly unscathed. Sunday must be spent on Day Job, so tonight's the night for yarn-spinning. Here goes ...

Ass2Chair,
Ass2Chair
Ass2Chair