Sundays are for setting up a fan fiction writing group with your fellow RPG dungeon masters. You gather in a nice living room that often reminds visitors of the beloved previous tenants, and you write something. It’s of indeterminate quality, at least until it’s fully formed, mainly because you let it go where it wants as you go, rather than planning out a path ahead of time. It’s a wild horse, and sometimes it bucks you off by, for example, having you roll into a metaphor you’re unlikely to be able to maintain unless you suddenly write cowboy hats into existence for your gang of would-be masters. The words spill forth, occasionally dripping onto the carpet or being flung towards a metal spitoon in the corner, where they land with a satisfying ftannnggg sound. Sometimes you do just about manage to keep the metaphors going.

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