Sundays are dedicated to starting a fanfiction writing group with your fellow RPG Dungeon Masters. You gather in a lovely living room that often reminds visitors of beloved former tenants, and you write something. Its quality is indeterminate, at least until it is fully formed, mainly because you let it go where it wants as it goes, rather than planning a path in advance. It’s a wild horse, and sometimes it throws you off, for example, by rolling you into a metaphor that you probably won’t be able to sustain unless you’re suddenly writing cowboy hats for your gang of future masters. The words spill out, sometimes dripping onto the carpet or being flung toward a metal spittoon in the corner, where they land with a satisfying ftannnggg sound. Sometimes you just about manage to maintain the metaphors.
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