March 2026 SOLC–Day 21
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My afternoon Writing Club was gathered around the circular table in my classroom.

“My finger hurts here when I write,” L. said, pointing to a red spot on the inside of her middle finger. 

“Oh,” I said, “that’s where you get a writer’s bump.”

I hold up my hand in front of her, pointing to the distinct callous on the inside of my middle finger.

“Wow!” she said, “Yours is really big!”

“Yup. And look, my middle finger is bent, too. I think it’s from the steady pressure of years of writing.” 

She looked at my hand and then held up her own hand, spreading her fingers apart slightly. “Mine isn’t bent,” she said. 

“Not yet,” I said, “but I’ve been writing for a lot more years than you.”

“How old are you?” she asks, tilting her head and scanning me.

“59.”

“Oh, I was two years off. I thought you were 61.”

“That’s close,” I said, sighing inwardly.

“Yeah,” she continued, “I didn’t think you were old old, but,” she gestured casually toward my hair, “you do have all that grey.”

“I do,” I confirmed. 

Then we both went back to our writing.

Later on, I was thinking about my hand, my writer’s bump, and that bent finger. I like that there’s a physical manifestation of all my years of writing. It’s kind of like the years have done with the greying of my hair. There’s proof that the years have been passing and that I’ve been changing. Years and years of writing have made an imprint on me in more ways than one.