Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and Free WiFi (writing as a full time job)

The first time I wrote something worth sharing, it was a poem. I thought it was worth sharing then, so I shared it on Facebook. There was this man then who always had something great to say about those poems, and then he would call me a Nobel laureate, all over my Facebook posts of those poems.

I was not sure what that was at the time, but it felt grand to hear those words. Eventually, I would understand what that meant and wonder why he was lying to me. Or was he motivating me?

Anytime facebook does the unsolicited honor of reminding me of those posts, I cringe hard. I never delete them though; we are trying to remember the days of little beginnings or rather, the days of cringe-worthy beginnings.

I wonder if Mark hears when I talk since he has been consistently accused of spying on us through the cameras and audio systems of our cellphones. Because whenever I see ‘here’s your memory from…’ I scrunch my face into awkward positions, then say ‘Thank you, Mark. I’ll pass’ I hope he takes a picture of my face if he truly is spying, he has seen me at my worst, literally.

I shared a lot of these poems, then stopped when the guy I liked broke my heart. Yes, I was writing these poems about a boy. I never wrote them again, you could say my muse was gone. But, Humprey, are you proud of yourself? I mean, are you proud of the fact that I used you as a muse to write those terrible poems? It was probably why he never stayed with me, who would read those and stay? At the time he liked them though because he replied with some poems that were, are not so cringe-worthy.

The second time I wrote something worth sharing, it was a short story, again, the streets of Zuckerberg were the recipients of this riddled-with-poor-punctuation story. I look back at that one and I do not cringe, it was the first time I truly explored this artistic ability. I was heading to a bar for Karaoke with a few friends that night, we passed through a lonely street. There is a back story as to why that street was lonely, but this is not the place to accuse the owner of Queen Suites hotel of diabolism. Back to my story, we were walking past the street we noticed that the only source of light on that street flickered. My friend then said ‘This will make a good horror movie, this street’. I laughed, we all laughed.

On my way back from the bar, I was alone walking that street. I saw bats fly as the light flickered, and everywhere was suddenly cold. I got home that day, took out my phone, and began to write. Mixed a little reality with fiction, because I really wanted people to visualize what I had seen and what I had imagined. It may have worked. The comments began rolling in.

Accolades. Praises. Compliments.

It felt grand.

From there, it began. Each story scarier than the former, with more gore, more blood, more deaths, more ghosts. I was unstoppable. I was writing everywhere, delivering stories every night. You could not hold me in a conversation, especially on a date, I would ignore you and keep writing.

Well, until my pastor decided that my inspiration was from the devil and asked me to stop, threatening to kick me out of the choir. He was asking me to choose between two things I loved, writing and singing. It hurt. I had to choose. I blocked the entire church on Facebook and went on with my life. Yes, that was my choice.

The third level of writing I stumbled onto was scriptwriting. I had no training when I got paid for my first two script jobs. I cringe when I look at them now. The story and the dialogue was, is great. However, I did not know much about the technicalities then. I have gotten a lot better these days, I wrote a script the other day and I was happy with myself.

I was introduced to content writing and the bill-paying aspect of writing in 2019 because I was broke. Ah, well. My first task was a rewrite, I flopped. I did not know what it meant or how to do it, so I rejected the job. I was given another. I did not flop. I did okay. That’s where the journey began. Earning 1 naira per word and working thrice as hard weekly to make sure I made some money at the end of the week. Sometimes I earned 3000naira, other weeks 10,000naira. It was okay, it was a training ground. It may have set the pace for my getting hired at a writing firm later. The early days of my adulthood were fully sponsored by content writing. I wrote every moment because the money was not big. I had to write twice as much as I was wont to so that I could pile up jobs and earn good money.

When I was not writing as a resident writer at the firm, I was writing as a freelance writer. I would wake up from sleep panting if I had an unfinished job. I stopped writing fiction completely. Why bother? It was not earning me any money, and I had bills to pay.

I remember asking the doctor ‘what?’ that day at the hospital.

He looked at me and slowly repeated himself. He said ‘You seem to be having signs of carpal tunnel syndrome, we would need to do an x-ray to…’

I stopped listening at that point.

I remember when the first pain came. It started as a tingle between my fingers on my left hand. I was writing the chapter of a book for some Ph.D. holder in the US when it started. I massaged my left fingers with my right hand and got back to work.

From the tingles, it increased to pain, excruciating between my ring and pinky fingers. Sometimes it would come from the finger of profane representation, other times from my forefinger.

Soon, the pain graduated to my wrist. I would stop in the middle of work and massage my wrists to my fingers so that I could work. I had to learn how to type with one hand — my right hand. Then the pain started there, so I slowed down.

I was writing one day and I felt the pain move to my elbow. I went back to the hospital and got my hand put in a cast.

I never really treated it.

Today, the pain goes away and returns when it feels like it. I have absolutely no control over when it comes.

In the middle of work at the office, or in the middle of work at home.

I should have suspected that when writing went from being a hobby to being a full-time job, I would have a hard time. I should have honed other skills. I should have paid more attention in class and maybe gotten a job in tech. These days it is hard to find something else I love other than writing. I love writing fiction. I like the idea of weaving fictional characters in my head. The orgasmic satisfaction I get from creating a fictional character and deciding that they die. The power of life and death is in my hand, literally. I cannot do that anymore. Every time I try to write fiction, it comes off as the most random, anyone-can-write thing ever. I cannot weave stories like only I can anymore. I went from the person who used to scare everyone to being this person who cannot even write a basic story.

I love script-writing, it does not make me miserable. Maybe that is because that is the visual representation of ‘having your dreams come true’. You get to see your work on TV. You get to see the characters you create live and die. You get to create an entire life in a few minutes or hours. I once wrote a 2 minutes script on emotional abuse. It felt good. Or maybe it is because I am not exactly earning from it at the moment.

Whoever said you would be happy if your hobby was paying you lied. I am miserable. However, what you are reading now, is yet another miserable attempt at trying to be a writer.

I have been writing and earning from content for about three years now and I can tell you this; the only thing I enjoy from it is the free wifi at my place of work.

What did I get from content writing? Some money, carpal tunnel syndrome, and free wifi.

Abigail Chukwu, 2021