Writers Write by Alberta Ross

I posted a while ago on the theindieexchange.com, I mentioned a budgerigar my sister once had. It was one of a pair. Flying loose in her dust-sheet clad room.  A brief recap of his story, one day he suffered a stroke. The vet said, too much, it will die. It didn’t die.  Mum never allowed such disasters. However, maybe it had been too much, he was left with deformed legs, unable to perch.

Life with a capitol L had slapped him hard.  I made padded balsa wood platforms for him to sit on. He hated them; he was born to perch. Recovery was long, Mum fed him by eye dropper some kind of mash (I never enquired too closely what it was she had mashed:) minor setbacks occurred, minor triumphs. That tiny bird was determined, had grit; knew himself for a  bird and birds perch.  Home birds can also hang upside down and peer into mirrors, birds are acrobatic. Birds do not give up being birds.

If you have read my original blog you’ll know this bird learnt to perch on its shins, or was it calves, I never have been able to work out but it was the leg, and he slept like so, balanced beautifully on what should have been impossible. Learnt to hang on by its beak. This bird eventually kicked away the balsa wood platforms and succeeded through sheer determination and grit to do what it was supposed to do. And flew around happily for another ten years.

So what, you say?  The part that tells each creature what it is supposed to be, runs strong in all of us.  It is the reason why mankind has spread across the planet despite every adversary thrown at it.  It is also why musicians make music even if they are deaf, painters paint pictures despite lack of hands.  It is why we strive to clamber over the obstacles, kick away the balsa wood when eventually we can fly on our own.

If we have to write we will, Life will try and trip us up, cause us to make necessary detours, Life will do its best to say, its too much.  But if we really want to write we will grit our teeth and find away.

Would my sister’s budgerigar had managed without the help of the humans around, no of course not, in the wild it would have been too much. Help, support, encouragement all went to enable it to perch again. His own determination and grit though, we couldn’t supply that, that was within him.

Groups such as Kait’s ROW80 are the Balsa wood, the eye dropper, and the encouragement. Life’s problems are unique to each of us.  The desire to write needs to be strong sometime to reach over and around those obstacles. Needs to be a driving force to succeed, and the success is different for each of us, we may never sell a million copies, after all we can’t all be eagles:)

I joined up here, right back at the beginning of time, Unsure of how to even comment, I lurked and wondered if I was a completely crazed old lady.  What was I expecting from the place?  Whatever it was I found it in spades.  Before the end of that first round I realised just how generous fellow writers can be. My insecurities were soothed, my inadequacies sorted out. I have confidence to write now, helped by that support.

Still, Life can hit out, still, the ROWers are there.   No-one can write for us, no-one can sort out Life’s obstacles for us, but they can support us and cheer us along the experience, and here on ROW80 they do, oh how they do. Wondrous place, wondrous folk.

~*~

Alberta Ross

12 comments

    1. he was a great bird – I’m not a fan of caged bird but he was an inspiration I have to say. You see it all around – dogs running on three legs, the blind striding out. Determination and grit all around:)

  1. Dear dear Alberta, You are THE grand lady of ROW80 to me. Your wisdom, your elegant writing and the beautiful metaphors you paint are truly inspiring. I also must admit that I have been a bad little balsa wood of late. I must rectify that, but what a truly beautiful and humbling post. My hat is off to you!

    1. I wonder sometimes if it’s a genetic thing – is it passed down through the ages? Before books would be be telling tales around the fire? My father wrote (mainly non fiction and my grandfather wrote small vinegretes – or is it just the way we are brought up. ah how tangled is nature nurture:) thanks for your reply Eden

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