I’d been working on my novel pretty steadily all year and sharing chapters with my writing group. My plan was to finish it by the end of 2026. Although I was putting the hours in, progress wasn’t coming along the way I expected. I was working on editing the book—looking at the character development, plot lines, all that. Sometimes editing a chapter would take me close to a month, other times only a week. I needed to change something up. So in February, I decided on a new goal.
I’d edit 10,000 words a week and then move on. I set a goal of finishing the book by July 1, 2026. (This meant the book would be ready for a new set of readers and maybe a review with a professional editor. So darn close to being finished.) Each week I would edit a good size chapter plus a chunk of another one. But if things went slow or I had a busy week, I found myself strapped to my desk all weekend, missing time with my friends and family. But I was making progress. So it seemed worth it.
And then boom! I broke my wrist. I was standing on a chair and putting a box on top of a cabinet in our garage. You know, really reaching, on the tip of my toes, arms stretched as far as they would go. And then I was falling onto the concrete floor. I landed on my hip first and felt lucky that I didn’t crack that. I knew right away that my wrist was broken. I’ve got a thing for breaking bones and this is about the seventh break I’ve had in the last ten years or so. So I know when something is broken.
I’m right-handed and of course I broke my right wrist. In two places. And this is what this story is really about: breaking the wrist of your dominant hand. My right hand was swollen and my fingers could barely move. In the emergency room, a nurse held my arm, while the doctor held my palm and pulled, trying to align my dislocated bones. Ten days later I had surgery to insert a plate into my wrist, adding its own set of swelling and pain. A friend told me she had never had so much pain as when she broke her wrist. I thought that was an odd thing to tell me, but I agree with her now.
I tried to write with my left hand. Nothing was decipherable. Anything I did write was in letters too large and wide apart to fit on a line. Kind of like a four-year-old might write their name. I could type with my left hand but I wasn’t thinking too clearly to put anything meaningful on the page. Remember that I was editing my entire book, chapter by chapter, so I had to think of the whole book at one time. And suddenly I couldn’t remember a lot of specific names or places in the book. Oh dear. Someone asked if I’d tried voice to text. I didn’t have the brain power to figure that out. The way I see it, all the energy that had pumped into my brain to recall just the right word, was now headed to my wrist. And that energy didn’t last too long before it needed to be recharged with a good long nap.
But there’s a nice element to breaking a bone. It forced me to slow down and stay home. I stopped going to my exercise classes. I stopped my volunteer activities. I stopped working on my book. I was tired and one handed. I couldn’t drive. I couldn’t cut up the food on my dinner plate or tie my shoes. I couldn’t put a bobby pin in my hair. I couldn’t do anything that required two hands. Think about that.
I started reading again, especially books by people I know. I read Paul Lisicky’s wonderful memoir, Songs So Wild and Blue, and an excellent short story collection, Close to a Flame by Colleen Alles. I got caught up on my emails and unsubscribed from a bunch instead of just deleting them, and I now make it a habit to read my mail every morning with my coffee. I started reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, a book I might have avoided because of its 540 pages.
My hand got better along with my energy level. I reorganized my bookshelves. I cleaned out my closet and started throwing away stuff I kept for “just in case.” I caught up on my to-do list, including writing this blog entry. I got away from my novel enough for other creative ideas to come into my head, like writing poetry. I start OT this week and I need to wear my hand brace for another five weeks.
And I’m ready to get back to the book. My fingers are stiff, but I can type and I can write notes. What have I learned? Balance. I want to finish my book, but in the big scheme of things, it doesn’t matter if that happens this year or next year, as long as I keep working on it. I’ll get there.
