I have no water. A call to my town revealed that this is because of a broken water main someplace; nobody has any water. After a morning of working hard on my current novel, I drove to buy some bottled water and also to have the car washed, a necessity since I can no longer see out of the windows for the salt, mud, and dried slush and am thus a potential danger to myself and the entire town of Irondequoit. As I drove, I passed the guys working on the water main. At the car wash, I saw the teenagers who hose down the cars pre-wash and wipe them off afterward.
It is 19 degrees out today. Both groups were bundled in coats, scarves, hats, work gloves, boots. Both were wet and, I imagine, wishing they were anywhere else. And I had a sudden epiphany: I had not "worked hard" on my writing.
Writing can be frustrating, draining, obsessive, and even painful, if rejected. But hard labor, it just ain't. Those guys were working hard. I, warm at my desk with a steaming mug of coffee, have no right to say I "worked hard." And I will not say it again.