If my search engine of choice weren’t so much worse at retrieval these days thanks to enshittification, I could probably find it in minutes: the cartoon, in a New Yorker-ish style, I think, of a man reclining on the couch, relaxed as you please, perhaps lately adrowse, responding peevishly to an unseen inquirer that Yes, I am working, what does it look like I’m doing? He’s a writer, you know, so labor looks a little different for him. The joke is that we writers are working as long as we’re breathing. No need to wear the look of industry. No need even to be conscious. Underlying the joke is that soupçon of truth—that despite writers being some of the hardest-working people I know, our work can look like repose or, worse, play. The very experience of living pours into the inkwell where it pools as potential for the page. (And, of course, everyone’s job is well-served by rest.)