The Two-Fingered Typist

Back in grad school, owing to a series of poor romantic and ergonomic life choices, I found myself in possession of a tired heart and a janky wrist.

The wrist, at least, seemed repairable.

I’d spent a year typing my thesis on saggy couches in basement coffee shops, laptop at belly button level. Now, two months before my mad opus was due, I’d developed a deep and persistent ache in the long stringy tendons that kept my righthand fingers tapping. The doctor diagnosed me with a repetitive motion injury and fitted me with a black brace and a warning to quit the navel gazing and find an actual desk.

I struggled on, and a few weeks later, my favorite author of ALL TIMES, David Sedaris, came to campus on a book tour.

I did that annoying thing greedy people do where they sneak out of the show early so they can be at the front of the meet-and-greet line. I had a copy of his latest book, “When You Are Engulfed in Flames,” in one mangled hand and a purple pen in the other. As I waited for Mr. Sedaris to emerge from the darkened auditorium, I cast frantically about for something clever to say to my literary hero. A witticism that would commit me to his memory and provide an engaging anecdote when I recalled the evening years from then, as I am doing now.

I stared down at my wrist. Bingo!

When it was my turn to get a signature, one of his handlers beckoned me forward.

“Hello, Mr. Sedaris,” I gushed fervently. “Will you please sign this book with my purple pen? Is that weird?!”

He graciously accepted the pen and as he scribbled his signature into the title page, he muttered half to me and half to himself that it was funny how many people brought their own pens to book signings.

The moment had arrived. Now or never.

“Um, I’m a journalism student, and I injured my wrist typing my thesis,” I announced.

Here, I held up my afflicted arm, locked in its perpetual open palmed wave. It looked like I was about to swear to something. And I kinda was.

“I was wondering if you have any tips for avoiding writer’s injuries?”

He smirked, and without missing a tic, he said, “Just type with one finger. That’s what I do.”

I cackled.

“Yes, OK! Thank you! I’ll do that!” By then the handler was giving me angry eyes. I’d been humored. It was time to go.

I scampered off into the night, gripping my prize in my stiff and achy hand.

He’d inscribed into my book: “To Erin, with purplish feeling.” -David Sedaris.

Life went on.

I didn’t take his typing advice to literal heart, but never the less, my wrist healed enough to permit the completion of an overlong thesis on Cuban state-produced media. And I got my quirky anecdote. And I (eventually) stopped dating miscreants and idiots.

It wasn’t till years later, however, that I actually took up one-fingered typing as a serious endeavor.

I first tried the method after the birth of my daughter, and then again after the birth of my son, when I found myself with hours to kill while nursing and being slept upon, my insides a potent churn of hormones and boredom and stifled creative longings. To stave off the pending crisis of feeling, I took up writing on my smartphone from a prone position in bed.

My son is now 10 months old, and I am still at it. I use one finger from each hand, to be exact, and It looks like this: left pointer and right thumb do the typing, while right pinky supports the weight of the phone and the left middle finger acts as a kickstand (in addition to doing the bonus emotional labor of flipping off anybody who comes into my peripheral vision.)

My writing posture might not pass an ergonomist’s test of fitness. It’s definitely not pretty to observe. But two-fingered typism keeps the ideas flowing in a season of life defined by confinements and confined by realignments. In fact, I’ve written several hundred thousand words this way over the past five years.

Tap tap tap! I’m using the two-finger typing method right now, in fact. My joints feel limber, loosened, and generally fantastic. No repetitive injury strain here. And I’m happy to report: My heart, too, is in good repair these days.

So, Mr. Sedaris, if you’re out there: From one addled typist to another, thank you. Your method really works! I’d testify to it any day.

I Remain,

Purplishly Yours,

Erin