About a year ago, I was diagnosed with writer’s cramp. It’s a rare form of focal dystonia, which means that my arm muscles immediately clench for no reason, and only when I write. I’ve had it for a while, around ten years or so, but I didn’t think there was anything clinically wrong with me until quite recently. There is currently no cure for it, so I’m stuck with two left hands for the time being.
It’s always ironic when I think about it — too ironic it’s almost poetic. It’s a good thing I wasn’t born in the 16th century when there were no computers or smartphones to “write” with. I would have gone mad. Or probably would have just gotten a private secretary.
Sometimes I think it’s too poetic to pass up. I mean, if there was anything in me that thought I’d be better off giving up writing altogether, it would immediately look at my diagnosis and think that maybe I was meant to write after all. It’s like when you stumble on a pun, you just can’t help but make that pun even if no one else finds it funny. In my case, now that I’ve stumbled on this weird disability, I can’t help but scream in passionate rebellion — although I’d like to think that some people might at least like what I write.