Venice, California, or a back seat of an abandoned car—it didn't matter where Clancy was, as long as he was fighting the "religious crap." A former professional writer and "imitation intellectual," Clancy viewed the Big Book as interminably dull until he realized it was the only divinely inspired piece of literature he ever held. He describes the wreckage of a "sinful Norwegian Lutheran" upbringing and a life spent as a "national distributor of small Catholics." For Clancy, the first three steps weren't metaphysical puzzles but brutal necessities. He argues that alcohol is merely the relief from the problem, not the problem itself.
He recalls a sponsor who waved a finger in his toothless face, pushing him toward a Higher Power not through theology, but through the raw, unconditional love of another alcoholic. He warns newcomers: don't pretend to believe in a God you hate; believe in your sponsor instead, or you're dead at two in the morning.
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