Today I got an email from my grandma: "If writing is so hard why not go lay brick"
(And I thought grandpa was the editor.)
I wrote back: "Because I'm a writer not a bricklayer."
Truth is I love writing. Especially on days like today when after four days of agonizing I have three decent paragraphs and a pretty good idea of where to go with however many graphs I have yet to write.
As Joyce Carol Oats said, the vice has loosened and I feel incredible.
I have a hunch that if I'd approached a bricklayer yesterday, when it was 105 degrees, and asked him what I thought of his job he'd say he'd rather be a writer.