Why is there a writer's fixation about the sea? I'm probably not a real writer then. Because all the great ones had this obsession about that dark blue giant pool (or, sometimes, about the skies - made of the same blue). I prefer to write about a guy taking a shit, staring at his toenails - that need to be cut.
Ugh, the sea. Is it because of the vast emptiness of a never-ending blue? Does that reflect the inside of a true writer? A sight the goes way deep into nothingness. Yeah, I can see why it appeals. But, still, it does not inspires me. I might as well continue to write about dirty toilets.