What birds can teach us about writing
Harnessing the power of observation to make the ordinary less … ordinary
Photo by Kevin Blanzy
This week, I started taking a course on prompt engineering-a.k.a how to use AI tools like ChatGPT efficiently. I figured that if I didn’t want to lose my job(s) to the rapidly evolving landscape of writing and content creation in the next 5-10 years, I should get with the times.
The creativity of ChatGPT does put me to shame-although that’s like comparing apples and oranges. One of the first things I noticed was how many ideas it can produce. They may not always be good, and talking with the tool can certainly become boring quickly-it’s not human-but it is quite generative.
When I was brainstorming what to write about today, I asked it a few variations on, “What are some prompts for self-reflective/personal writing?” since that’s the direction I try to take this newsletter in on Sundays.
One stood out: “Observe what’s going on around you”. It’s so obvious, but so intentional too. It’s hard to look at our everyday lives in a different light, as if they held writing worthy material instead of the mundane. But ChatGPT was right, in a sense-some of the best writing is made up of mundane events with an extraordinary perspective. So observe I did.
I was lying on the couch on Saturday afternoon in a state of sloth, suddenly sleepy with no real explanation when my boyfriend walked into our living room holding a lantern, beaming.
“What is that?” I said
He looked at me as if I had lost my wits.
“It’s a bird feeder!”
Photo by Brett Sayles
I was overjoyed at my lantern-shaped birdfeeder, the first birdfeeder of ours since moving back in February. We live quite close to other houses, but our backyard is wooded and filled with life, from frogs in the spring to slugs, birds, and other creatures unknown. Every morning, birds tunnel their beaks into our yards to dig out worms- and now they can follow it up with a visit to their local feeder.
I simply had to go back to Lowe’s, the closest home improvement store, to grab a hook for it. Aside from being tired, I was delighted. Lowe’s, I thought, would be a great place for observation of people.
As I wandered around the “decorative outdoor knick-knacks” section, finding garden gnomes, new planters, solar-powered orbs, and everything but a hook, a man approached me. My first instinct upon looking at him was that he looked lost. Maybe I could help. I hope he doesn’t think I’m an employee here.
As he got closer, his body language changed from “lost” to “gotcha!” as a “Hello” slid out of his mouth.
My body language had changed from “open” to “fuck off”.
“Hello,” I replied, stiffly.
He introduced himself, extending his hand, and in a millisecond battle inside my head, being polite won out over asking him why he thought it was appropriate to hit on girls in home improvement stores.
“Are you involved?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, knowing it was the most surefire way to get him to leave.
“You’re so beautiful. I wish you was mine.”
He walked away.
Dazed by this brazen declaration of wishful ownership, I walked over to the cashier to ask where on God’s green Earth they were keeping the shepherd’s hooks.
Apparently, I had been observed, not the observer.
In another story, I think this would have been the climax, the main point, the take-home lesson, but in this story, I was barely fazed. For better or for worse, I was unbothered by this one man’s inability to see me as anything but a beautiful object to own. I knew better, now, even if many men still did not.
Once I wrangled my shepherd's hook and the other garden items I had inevitably picked up into my car, I began the drive back home.
It always takes me past a man experiencing houselessness. He has a dog and is disabled. I wonder what his story is. If anyone is around to help him, and if he wants to be helped. I wonder where he met the dog. I wonder how we can be the wealthiest nation in the world and have the epidemic of those who have no homes to go to be just one of our many humanitarian crises.
I always smile at him when I pass. I try not to pity him, only to witness him. He deserves to be seen.
When I got home, I helped my boyfriend hang up our new birdfeeder. It turns out that the shepherd’s hook I picked out was surprisingly low to the ground. Would the birds come?
This morning, they did. A pair of cardinals. Hopefully, they’re just the beginning of a most lively kitchen window.
Photo by Chris F
As a child, breakfast was punctuated by “bluejay!” “bluebird” and, my favorite, “blue-footed booby!” That was SO funny.
My mom would lift my brother and me up to see the bluebird eggs in the birdhouse until we were old enough to use a stepstool. I would begrudgingly help my mom refill the birdfeeders with sunflower seeds.
When I was 6, I was quite the academic overachiever already and decided I wanted to do an extra book report for my 1st-grade class on BIRDS. When I was 8, I spent two allowances on my own birdfeeder. It was purple and sparkly, and I had to have it.
At a certain age, I decided I didn’t like birds anymore. In recent years, on family vacations, I’ve begun to come around again. Dad always brings the same 25-year-old pair of binoculars, and on vacation, there’s rarely anything to do but nothing. So I pick up the binoculars and see if I can spot any birds. I’m not the birders that my parents are, but I do love the art of simply watching them.
I love bird watching and listening to them chirp. Your article reminds me that I need to dust off my bird feeders and hang them off the tree. Thank you for your article!
Ugh that guy. “I was you were mine.” So do many, pal. Now off you fuck. 😘
I like the reminder/emphasis on observation as a source of inspiration - helpful to me searching for prompts!