Melinda Grady's Page

Was talking to someone the other day about the frusteration that comes when people read your work and assume it has all happened to you or that the values of your narrator are of the author too, then judge you on it. Yes of course some of the author is transported into their work, it is inevitable but surely they must concieve that as writers we use our imagination too.

(This was written a while ago after reading Alan Ginsberg)

There was a time when I didn’t know which way to go or even how to stand up, but I’m grown up now. Am tired now but grown up.

The sun was out and it was happy as it shone on us all, burning our bodies, turning us into brown trees too sore to move our taught skin. The sand was white and it was hot on our bare feet. The salty water was warm and foaming, but we were smiling like the sun as we enjoyed one another’s presence. It was summer… Continue

Sometimes it’s as if my brain is going too fast for me. Everything is emphasised two fold. If I don’t move fast then my head will explode with thoughts. Every colour is brighter, every sound is louder and more distinct, and every action is exaggerated in my mind. All perception of time is lost. I am eating a grapefruit as if it is a truly delicate procedure. I am typing on the keyboard with sticky fingers. I am getting spoonfuls of juice and no flesh.

Listening to Barry White

Bout to go to work.

You know what's cool, being able to write 'bout' and not getting criticised for it. Bout's practically a word, I use it enough. To the list of words that if aren't words should be I add; cus, nup. Okay, short list at the mo (Oh there's one), but there is definatly more.

Anyway, here's to my first blog. (tinkling of glasses)

Really should get posting.

(Out song: Irene Cara, 'Fame')