My fingernails are too long to type. The click-clackety sound gets louder everyday.
I’ve been working on a novel. Don’t bother looking impressed, every writer has a novel in their back pocke---oh. You weren’t impressed. Your eyebrows went up a little because your coffee was too hot. I get it. Anyway, don’t look for this novel in the bookstore nearest you anytime soon (for further clarification, refer back to my blog about procrastination).
So, I’m finally able to say I’m writing a novel without cracking up. Correction, I’m able to type it without cracking up. If I say it, I will most definitely still crack up. I will probably just say it under my breath at first for a while (still cracking up). At the rate I’m going, I envision a future book signing where people hand me the book to sign (although I’ve never been to one, I assume this is the general protocol) and I…start to crack up.
While laughing, I’ll point to my assistant (yes, my assistant. My visions for the future always include an assistant). So I will point to my assistant and say, Me? (snort) nooo….she wrote it!! And proceed to play punch my assistant in upper arm like I’m 10 years old (my imaginary assistants put up with so much). Then, the crowds (my vision always includes either throngs, masses or crowds)...the crowds back away slowly, books clutched to their chests, eyes wide…because I have confirmed what they always have thought.
Authors are bizarre.
Where was I? Oh. Fingernails.
So I’ve been typing and typing and suddenly it’s getting weirdly uncomfortable. I realize how long my nails are and stop to admire them for a while. Nice. Maybe I should get a French manicure or something. Then I type again. Weird discomfort again. Sidetracked by potential beauty of nails again. Type again…start to slowly make the connection. I need to trim my nails! Based on how long it took for me to realize this, it probably goes without saying that my novel will not be hailed as one of the Profound Works of Literary Genius.
I start to clip my nails. Gross, Mom! my daughters say (through the hail of nail clippings). I inquire as to other locations to do this necessary task. They list off several, but by that time I’m done. (I clean the clippings up, I’m not that gross) (the ones I can see anyway) (where do they all go?).
Original wpm restored! Discomfort gone! I should have been a doctor. Yes, that is what my mind immediately leaps to. After 10 minutes of typing, and the discomfort is back.
What is this? (no more pretty nails to distract me) It seems as though my pinky fingers have developed carpal tunnel syndrome! Yes, just the pinkies. I'm pretty sure it's a thing. It wasn’t the nails. So now I have short, ugly nails and a weird condition and can’t finish my novel. No one will ever believe this is the only reason.
The moral of the story is...when you're out in the craziness this weekend, just take a moment to be grateful for functional pinkies. Because you never know what you've got until it's gone.