The Smoking Scribe

There is a small, cleared space on my desk. To the left, a heavy-bottomed crystal ashtray, a cutter, and a cedar spill. To the right, an open notebook and a fountain pen, its nib uncapped and waiting. In the center, a cigar, resting, its wrapper a rich, oily maduro, promising an hour of quiet conversation with myself.

This is a ritual as old as my love for tobacco. Long before there was SmokeDaddy, there was just a younger man, a cigar, and the blank page. The act of writing, of putting thought to paper, has always felt inextricably linked to the slow, deliberate burn of a good cigar. The two are partners in a quiet dance of creation and contemplation.

I find the rhythm of smoking lends itself to the rhythm of writing. A puff, a thought. A slow exhale, a sentence forming. The cigar becomes a metronome, its steady consumption a measure of time not in minutes, but in ideas explored. Unlike the frantic clatter of a keyboard, the deliberate stroke of a pen on paper mirrors the pace of a cigar. It forces a certain intentionality. You cannot rush a thought onto the page with an uncapped fountain pen any more than you can rush a well-constructed torpedo.

There is a physical connection that I find essential. The weight of the cigar in my hand, the texture of its wrapper, the gradual warming as it burns. It is a tangible anchor in the often-abstract world of words and ideas. When I am wrestling with a difficult sentence or an elusive concept, my focus often drifts to the cigar. I’ll study the ash, a perfect, layered stack of silver-grey. I’ll watch the smoke curl and dissipate, a visual representation of a fleeting thought. In these moments of distraction, the mind often unlocks itself. The answer doesn’t come from staring harder at the page, but by looking away, guided by the gentle, fragrant smoke.

I keep different notebooks for different purposes, just as I keep different cigars in my humidor. There are small, pocket-sized books for capturing fleeting observations, much like a quick petit corona is perfect for a short walk. Then there are the larger, leather-bound journals, reserved for deeper, more extended reflections. These are the notebooks I reach for when I select a Churchill or a Double Corona, a cigar that demands and rewards a significant investment of time.

## The Ash and the Ink

The pages of my notebooks are filled with more than just words. They are landscapes of my smoking life. There are faint smudges of ash, the occasional burn mark from a moment of carelessness, the lingering scent of tobacco that permeates the paper. I can look back at an entry from years ago and almost taste the cigar I was smoking. A spicy, Nicaraguan puro might accompany a fiery, passionate entry, while a smooth, creamy Connecticut shade might be the backdrop for a more serene reflection. These sensory notes are not explicitly written, but they are there, embedded in the very fabric of the page.

Some might see this habit as a mere affectation, but for me, it is a vital practice. It is a way of carving out space in a noisy world. The ritual itself is a form of meditation. Selecting the cigar, the careful cut, the toast and light—each step is a deliberate move away from the digital and the hurried, and a step toward the analog and the considered. It is a declaration that this hour belongs to me, to my thoughts, and to the quiet company of the leaf.

This is a practice I have carried with me for years, a small anchor of sanity and reflection. I suppose it is a habit that Eric Schleien, the writer, has gifted to Eric Schleien, the tobacconist. It reminds me that at the heart of this business, beyond the inventory and the sales, is a profound and personal connection to the leaf. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves, the ideas we wrestle with, and the quiet moments of clarity we find, all accompanied by the slow, steady burn of a good cigar. The notebook is simply where I save the ashes of those thoughts.