What We’re Doing Here on Sundays
“To read many of the best works in the genre is to follow along as the writer argues with themselves. The writer of the personal essay does not start out knowing the answer and may not know by the end, either—but if we are reading the work of a master, we are at least given a new way of viewing the question. This duality, then, helps bring about the ultimate achievement of the personal essay, which is when a reader says, ‘I had never thought of it that way.’”
—Clifford Thompson, Duality in the Personal Essay, Creative Nonfiction
I read that line this week and shook my head in agreement. Finally, someone put words to the way writing actually feels. Not polished. Not resolved. But curious. Stubborn, even. Sad. Thompson says the best essays aren’t about handing the reader an answer, they’re about the writer arguing with themselves. That’s all I’m ever really doing here. Trying to see clearer. Not perfectly. Just clearer.
Sundays.
Some would argue they’re the best day of the week. Full of football, soup, family, a moment carved out for God. The pace slows. We take inventory of what’s left from last week, and what’s coming for us next. The Sunday Scaries. I wrote a poem a few weeks ago called “Sunday Night Silence,” because there’s something about the stillness of a Sunday that begs for reflection.
So here’s the vision.
Sundays on this blog are for personal essays. For that late night, the heart in your throat feeling when a memory resurfaces and won’t let go. For sitting still long enough to notice something you didn’t have words for before.
We’re not here to post things you’re meant to fully agree with. We’re not here to go viral. We’re here to hold space for stories that might feel uncomfortable, too quiet, too specific, too something. But maybe they open a door you didn’t expect. Maybe they shift something in you.
To me, a personal essay is short, sharp, and intimate.
I write them at night, usually in bed, while memories replay like one of those old projector screens from middle school, washed out colors, shaky film, and the sound always just a little off. Regret is the hue of the week. I never know where my thoughts will lead me. More nights than not, I feel like a victim of my own mind but what I've learned is that this often results in great writing! Or at least shocking writing…
This space isn’t just for stories. It’s for searching. And lately, I’ve found myself circling this question: Where does your softness go when you’re protecting yourself?
I thought about that last Sunday, actually. I was sitting on the bed folding laundry I didn’t feel like folding, crying over a memory I hadn’t thought about in months. Something someone said. Something I said back. It came out of nowhere, like most things do when the house is quiet and everything is finally done and the ache has time to catch up.
I didn’t text anyone. I didn’t try to write it down or make it useful. I just sat there and let it sting. Told myself it was okay to feel it and still be safe. Still be soft. Still be human. So where does the softness go?
Not toward you. Not anymore. That part of me comes home now. To me.
And maybe that’s what Sundays are really for, sitting still long enough to notice something you’ve been carrying. Naming it. Holding it. Not to solve it, just to say, “I see you.” That’s what I want these essays to be. A place to sit with the quiet and listen for whatever rises.
Thursdays are still finding their groove, we’re playing, experimenting, seeing what fits. But Sundays? Sundays are where we come to feel. If you’re a writer, or just someone with something to say, we’d love to hear from you. Use the contact page to share your work. We’re especially looking to publish guest voices on Sundays! Essays that hold truth, ache, humor, longing, softness, sharpness. If it’s real, we’re listening.
