Writers On Writing
Writing the End — Or Not
Tony Robinson sits on the beach, looking out to sea, holding his divorce papers.
Toby Robinson sits on the Mendocino shores waiting for the coming darkness, watching the sun’s fiery splendor pulled toward the ocean, its sizzling edge soon to dip out of sight.
Sometimes, a broken writer will yell across the width of darkness, crying out for help… for another day of sunshine… or a new idea, but Toby is not crying out for help, only wondering how his life had come to this in the shortness of two years.
Picking up a stone, he hurls it into the ocean. He is done writing ridiculously romantic love stories. It isn’t his reality, not the kinds of story for which he has been responsible and which have made him rich, where a man is walking alone on a beach. A figure walks toward him, a woman, coming along the ocean’s petticoat edge, the sun falling crimson, with beautiful long red hair.
He is so fucking tired of writing that shit.
Love is found everywhere, not just on white sands, but in a city’s towering blocks, alongside highways…
