Sunday is my day for not writing. I use it to recoup and built up the courage to begin again on Monday. Courage is a strange word, because, let's face it, all I'm doing is sitting in a room trying to fill an empty (computer) page with words. But it's a struggle to do that and by Saturday I'm burnt out, and the other advantage of having a day off is it gives me a goal to work for. It's my reward for working at it six days a week. I work a minimum of two hours a day, and never feel bad if I don't go beyond that time - though often I do.
But enough of that - I want to write about my Sunday. It was wonderful. I started the morning by watching a line of talking heads news shows while reading the weekend advertising flyers, looking to see which store is 'giving' something away. In the afternoon I went outside, sat in a lounger that faces a lake and read a few chapters of Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. Around sundown I re-stringed my fishing rod, replacing the 10 lb line with a 25 lb line - and yep the fish in the lake has snapped my 10 lb line more than once. In the evening I watched the Dolphins battle the Jets - a hell of a game that the Jets won. I ended the evening reading more of Sense and Sensibility.
I seriously thought of stopping my writing and going on an extended Sunday, everyday just doing the same thing; relaxing and letting the world drift by.
On Monday, I woke up, did the first of my three-times-per-week power walking around the neighborhood, showered, wrote for two hours, and then drove to FIU for my Fiction Workshop class. Somewhere during the day it hit me that Sundays wouldn't be near as satisfying if I didn't earn my way there.