The birds in Oman are noisy. With the door open on a weekday morning, as I write, their voices are all that can be heard. I start to wonder whether the neighbour’s cat has wandered into their zone, disturbing the peace to make them cackle so. But no, they’re just extremely loud.
Some evenings, I park the car on the way to a wander by the beach and I’m awestruck by the cacophony coming from the trees. A symphony of squawks.
This is what they sound (and look) like:
I’ve finally reached a point in the writing of my novel that I could call a first draft. It’s exciting and terrifying. I spent years hiding my work, showing no one but the occasional creative writing tutor.
I thought: If no one sees it then I can keep it safe, I’ll just continue writing, I thought, until…
Expression needs an audience. Birds sing in order to be heard. They’re communicating something. To each other at least.
What do they say?
Not a bad spot for flying... perhaps
Incredible the skies. The way the moon hangs like the last slice of a melon…
Or something far beyond our imaginings, never hiding what’s in their hearts.
So I’m taking my cue from Muscat’s winged beasts, starting the task of editing then querying to a publisher and an agent. Or twenty. Hoping they might look up from what they’re working on. To note the sound of yet another bird, singing into the silence.