Why do birds walk?

Expectations in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Zero.

5

Why do birds walk when they can fly, especially when they seem in a rush to get somewhere? Do they calculate the distance and think to themselves “it’s walkable, so I may as well…” or “it’s not worth getting my wings out of the garage”? I look at the bird at the foot of our table on the patio of a Persian restaurant that serves pasta. It lifts a foot, slaps it flat on the floor, then lifts the other, slaps it flat on the floor, then lifts the other, slaps it flat on the floor... and I want to tell the bird “you know you can fly, right?” but I don’t, because I know it knows. I just don’t understand why.

4

When I meet someone and they say they are anything other than a writer, I am in disbelief: how can someone not harbour a burning desire to become a writer? When I meet someone and they say they want to become a writer, I don’t believe them.

3

Nine years ago, I interviewed a writer for her debut collection of short stories. Nine years ago, she told me she was writing another book, a book about what it’s like to grow old. What it’s like to grow old and have kids. Kids growing older simultaneously. Nine years I have waited for the book to be out. Next year, it will be ten.

2

13,780 words. This is how far along I am. I have high expectations for the novel I’m writing. I don’t know if it will find an agent. I don’t know if said agent will find an editor for it. I don’t know if the editor will help it find its readers. Yet, every morning, specifically every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, I sit at my desk and I repeat to myself: You are entitled to the work, not to the fruit of the work. And I write.

1

I am at a place in my life where everything is blurry and this is clear: “I would rather fail at poetry than succeed at anything else.” Now replace Edward Hirsch’s poetry with fiction, look down at your feet: congratulations, you are in my shoes.

0

“You need to come to terms with the fact that, to you, nothing else matters.” My husband, about the novel I’m writing (and all the other ones I’ll write after).

Swan Lady, by Studio Vreeken

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Accord mets-vin:

My husband, Elias Kammoun, chooses a song each week to accompany the essay. We both feel that the art of listening to music the way we read or watch a film is becoming a lost art; music is usually the backdrop to something else, never the thing itself. This is an invitation to give it the same courtesy. Play the music, sit down, and just listen for the length of one song. (Find and follow the playlist on Spotify here.)

Thank you for reading, and listening. Do hit the ❤️ if you enjoyed this essay :)