You see, I love my hands. I do. They aren't the prettiest. To be honest, they are a bit on the small side, and I don't have long elegant fingers. Hand modelling certainly isn't an option for me. I have poor cuticles and raggedy nails. Sure, they are soft as soft can be, but that's not enough to appeal to all those people out there who have hand fetishes.
Actually, is that even a thing? I mean, I know people have foot fetishes (though I don't understand them in the least), but are there people out there who go gaga for pinkie fingers and a plump palm? I'm guessing it is an actual fetish. Clearly, I'm not worldly enough to know for sure. There seems to be a fetish for everything these days, including water bottles and, believe it or not, theme music from retro television programs. I don't know about you, but the Dukes of Hazzard song really gets my motor going.
We were talking about the much more interesting subject of my hands. Even though they aren't perfect or even beautiful, I love them. They can type over 100 words a minute. Hard to believe, right? I mean, that's a lot of of pounding of the keyboard. You can't even see my fingers, that's how fast they are moving. Okay, that might be an exaggeration. I don't have Flash Gordon hands. But they always deliver what I need of them, which is most excellent because I like to write. It's true. I write a lot. Books, blogs, short stories, flash fiction, and even a terrible poem here and there. Not only do I love to write, but some people even think I am pretty good at it.
Which is wonderful, right?
Well, yeah. It is. Except, I have a job where I use the computer all day long. In an average day, I can send upwards of fifty emails. That's a lot of freakin' emails. And I am constantly tap-tap-tapping away at my desk. This is posing to be a bit of a problem.
You see, my hands hurt. A lot. They ache all the time. There is a dull throbbing nestled into the joints that never goes away. Some days are worse than others. But Saturday, for example, I honestly couldn't do much of anything with them. Just sitting in front of my lappy made them scream. The pain has been going on for awhile, a year or so now, but these days it's really bad. My writing has slowed to a trickle. In an effort to distract myself, I have turned to editing, but I'm a creative creature. I need to create in order to concentrate. So, the editing isn't going all that well either.
The pain and lack of writing is an issue. A big issue. If I don't write, I get complacent, bored, sad. If I'm not creating, I don't have a purpose. There is no outlet to the thoughts streaming through my head. I get derailed. And the longer I go without the word weaving I so enjoy the more doubt I have over what I am doing. I hate doubting something I love so much. Questioning it, sure. Knowing I have a crap-ton of room for improvement, that's healthy. But doubting it? It's counter-productive and utterly defeating.
The worst part is I only have two options...Get a new job or stop writing. Jobs aren't as readily available as they once were. And I need to pay my mortgage. Where does that leave me? And even if I get a new job, there isn't any guarantee that the pain will ease. I worry about what it's going to be like in thirty more years. Will I even be able to write at all? If not, who the heck is going to type out my stories as I dictate them?