Sundays are good medicine for a novel.

Monday through Saturday you build and shape, and rebuild and reshape, and break out the coke bottle glasses and paint on the fine print.

And by the time Saturday night rolls around, your week’s work looks less like a sculpture and more like an incomprehensible lump.

But Sunday, you turn your back. You walk away.

You walk far, far away, if you’re lucky.

And Monday morning, when you come back, when you open your files and look over the last few chapters, they’re back in focus, and so is the next step.

Sundays are magic like that.


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