bird

They’re so darn cute together, these two. Neal Allen, father of four, newspaper reporter turned corporate executive turned spiritual coach turned author of two spiritual guidebooks, stands a full head of hair taller than his dread-headed wife, who calls him her “current husband.” He calls her his “remarkable and beautiful partner” and himself “Mr. Anne Lamott.”

And no wonder. Author Anne Lamott has published 21 books, with worldwide sales in the millions. “Bird by Bird,” her 1994 writing handbook, which has sold more than 1 million copies and continues to sell approximately 40,000 copies each year, became a meme before there were memes. Thirty-two years later, the titular phrase has made appearances everywhere from “Ted Lasso” (Coach Beard: “I hate losing.” Coach Lasso: “Bird by bird, Coach.”) to a Gloria Steinem interview in Cosmopolitan (“Every writer, truth-seeker, parent, and activist I know is in love with one or more books by Anne Lamott”).

Ask a famous writer how they do what they do, and “Bird by Bird” will likely get honorable mention. Harlan Coben, whose 35 novels have sold roughly 90 million copies, calls “Bird by Bird” his “favorite writing manual.” “I use it like a coach’s halftime speech to get me fired up to write.”

In a 2007 interview, “Eat Pray Love” author Elizabeth Gilbert called herself Lamott’s “literary offspring.” Paula McLain, who wrote the 2011 blockbuster “The Paris Wife,” told me: “I return to ‘Bird by Bird’ again and again because Anne Lamott tells the truth about how hard this work is — and then somehow makes you laugh about it.”

I reached out to best-selling memoirist and novelist Dani Shapiro to ask if she had her own experience with the book. “A writer is always a beginner,” she said. “And there is no better companion than ‘Bird by Bird.’”

Lamott and Allen partnered to write “Good Writing.”

(Christie Hemm Klok / For The Times)

Lamott, 71, and Allen, 69, met in 2016 on the 50-plus dating site OurTime.com. Nine months later, they bought a woodsy Marin County home with room for Lamott’s son and grandson. Sam, when he was 1 year old, was the subject of his mom’s first bestseller, the 1993 memoir “Operating Instructions.” His son Jax was the subject, at age 1, of his grandmother’s 2012 memoir, “Some Assembly Required.”

“We were watching U.S. Open tennis one night and Neal said, ‘Can I ask you something?’” Lamott told me via email. “I barely looked away from the TV, and he asked me to marry him. I said, ‘Yes, if we can get a cat.’”

After a decade of marriage, Lamott and Allen have undertaken a professional collaboration whose outcome, like their union, is greater than the sum of its parts. “Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences” is as sharply specific as “Bird by Bird” is wanderingly wonderful: as winning a companion piece as two winning companions could create. The table of contents is itself a mini-manual of writerly tips: “Use Strong Verbs.” “Sound Natural.” “Keep it Active.” “Stick with Said.” “Don’t Show Off.”

Lamott and Allen.

(Christie Hemm Klok / For The Times)

I spoke to the late-life lovebirds about their process of marital manuscript-making: the good, the not so good and the blackmailing.

Meredith Maran: How did writing “Bird by Bird” compare to co-authoring “Good Writing”?

Anne Lamott: “Bird by Bird” was literally everything I knew about writing, everything I had been teaching my students for years. It was definitely my book. “Good Writing” was definitely Neal’s book. I just foisted my attention on him and threatened to undermine the marriage if he did not let me contribute.

MM: Neal, what on earth convinced you that you could add something to one of the world’s most popular writing books —written by your wife, no less?

Neal Allen: Oh, I’m not adding anything to “Bird by Bird,” which is a complete classic. It’s everything you need to know about becoming a writer. “Good Writing” is about what comes next: a second draft. And while it’s not fair to call “Bird by Bird” a craft book — it’s much more — it’s fine to define “Good Writing” that way.

“Helping each other with our work is one of the richest aspects of our life as a married couple,” Lamott said.

(Christie Hemm Klok / For The Times)

MM: In producing this joint project, how did you two negotiate the differences between your writing styles and personalities?

AL: We didn’t need to negotiate. Neal somehow manages to be both elegant and welcoming, whereas I think I am more like the class den mother, with a plate of cupcakes, exhorting people not to give up, trying to convince them that they can only share their truth in their own voice, that their voice is plenty good, and that when they get stuck, as we all do, I know some tricks that will help them get back to work.

NA: I once asked AI to describe the difference between my writing and Annie’s. AI answered that I explain things to readers; Annie helps readers reach catharsis. I think that’s absolutely right.

MM: How did you come up with the book’s fab format, whereby each of you writes your own introduction, and then each chapter starts with Neal’s thoughts about one of the 36 rules and ends with Annie’s?

NA: Annie first asked if she could annotate what I had written. That scared the bejesus out of me. When she started writing her own essays in her own voice, I was quite relieved. One of the format’s surprising strengths is that Annie always gets the last word. I explain the rule; then she helps the reader find their way and resolve their issues with the rule. There’s a downside: I don’t get to respond when she tells the reader to ignore me.

“I’m not adding anything to ‘Bird by Bird,’” Allen said. “It’s everything you need to know about becoming a writer. ‘Good Writing’ is about what comes next: a second draft.”

(Christie Hemm Klok / For The Times)

MM: In your intro, Anne, you recall Neal telling you he was working on a writing book. “Well. Hmmmph,” you replied. “I had written a book on writing once …” How did professional jealousy, competitiveness, possessiveness, or, on the brighter side, tenderness, collaborative spirit and generosity play out as you wrote a writing book together?

AL: We have no competitiveness or jealousy when it comes to each other’s writing. We just want the other person to write the most beautiful work they can. We are each other’s first reader, and editor, and while of course I feel attacked if Neal suggests even the tiniest change to my deathless prose, I have come to understand that his suggested cuts and additions save me from myself. Helping each other with our work is one of the richest aspects of our life as a married couple.

NA: There’s no way around “Bird by Bird,” and I just have to deal with that. My worry was whether Annie really wanted to be associated with my little book. I’m envious of Annie’s brilliance, of course, but we speak the same writing language and we love it equally.

MM: What are each of you proudest of, “Good Writing”-wise?

AL: We just recorded the audio version, and I was surprised by how much practical help the book offers. Also, I love the tone, which is so conversational and sometimes, I hope, pretty funny.

NA: I had the opposite reaction to recording the audio version. I saw all the opportunities for readers to mock me. In the 18 months between writing a final draft and the book showing up in stores, we’ve both flipped from believing it reflects well on us to thinking it’s a disaster. Luckily, both of us haven’t ever thought it sucks at the same time.

MM: That is fortunate. Also, Neal, I’m not sure you answered my question.

NA: What am I proudest of? That the book exists. I carried around these rules for improving sentences for years. I think a lot of writers do a book because they notice it’s not out there, and why isn’t it? And then they shrug, ‘Well, I guess it’s up to me.’ That’s how I came into all three of my books.

AL: May I just add that I’m proud to introduce my seriously charming and breathtakingly wise husband to a wider audience.

Inara George looks back on it now as wistfully as someone remembering a love affair or a semester abroad.

“It was at this tiny theater on Pico near LaBrea, next to a barbecue place,” she says. “Our backstage was behind the theater, so we’d sit out there wearing these crazy corseted outfits while the guy next door was smoking brisket.”

A fixture of the Los Angeles music scene known for her solo records and as half of the Bird and the Bee, George is recalling the summer she spent working as a 20-something actor in “The Wandering Whore,” a musical set in 18th century London by composer Eliot Douglass and lyricist Philip Littell that played L.A.’s Playwrights’ Arena in August 1997.

“There was a scene where I die,” George adds, “and then I get reanimated by a ghost and someone pays — I don’t know if you need to put this in the article — someone pays to have relations with me.” She sighs.

“It was just such a rich time.”

Three decades later, George’s warm feelings for that era — and especially for the duo who soundtracked it — have led to an exquisite new album, “Songs of Douglass & Littell,” on which she sets aside her own songwriting to interpret nine tunes by these under-the-radar veterans of West Coast musical theater: searching, funny, vividly emotional songs like “Tired Butterfly,” about a busy insect in search of “a little nap,” and “The Extra Nipple,” which ponders a “harsh encounter with another heart.”

Think of the record as George’s take on one of Ella Fitzgerald’s classic “Song Book” LPs from the late ’50s and early ’60s, when the jazz star was systematically enshrining the work of Cole Porter, Irving Berlin and other authors of the Great American Songbook.

“These men deserve to have some attention,” George says of Douglass and Littell, the latter of whom she’s known since she was a little girl performing in plays at Topanga Canyon’s Theatricum Botanicum. “I want to give them their flowers.”

Yet if the album is rooted in the creative awakenings of George’s youth, it’s also the 51-year-old’s way of embracing middle age.

Inspired by singers like Helen Merrill and Chet Baker — “Elis & Tom,” a 1974 duo album by Brazil’s Elis Regina and Antônio Carlos Jobim, was another touchstone — George turns on “Songs” from the Bird and the Bee’s blippy electronica and the folky pop of her solo work to a jazzier sound that puts her cool, breathy vocals amid piano, strings and horns.

“This is a grown-up record,” says George, who shares three teenage children with her husband, the movie director Jake Kasdan. “I don’t want to be making music that makes me feel like I’m trying to be younger — I wanted to make something that makes me feel my age.”

Inara George at home this month.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

The singer is at home near Griffith Park on a recent afternoon; with her kids at school and Kasdan away on a film shoot, the house is quiet, though signs of music are everywhere: a drum set, a grand piano, a guitar once owned by George’s late father, Lowell George, who founded the cult-fave L.A. rock band Little Feat and who died of a heart attack when Inara was only 4.

“As a woman, it’s a weird time in life — there’s something in-between about it,” she says. “Even the question of what do you wear. When you’re younger, you’re like, I’m gonna wear a dress — is it sexy, is it cute? Now, all of a sudden, all I want to do is wear suits.” She laughs.

Douglass, who plays piano on the new album, hears a “groundedness” in George’s singing all the more remarkable given that the arrangements represent “a new kind of school for her,” he says. “I was wondering how she would approach it, and she’s done it with such aplomb and wisdom.”

On Friday night, Douglass will accompany George — along with more than a dozen other players — in a record-release concert at Largo at the Coronet, with proceeds going to the nonprofit LA Voice, which seeks to organize voters on issues related to immigration and affordable housing.

George happily describes “Songs of Douglass & Littell” as a passion project. “I think you get to a certain point where selling a million records is not your intention,” she says. “Obviously, I wouldn’t make a record like this if I had that intention.” (Counterpoint: the arena-filling success of Laufey.)

“I’m just about the experience,” she adds, “and this has been an amazing experience.”

The experience began one night a few years ago when George hosted a wine-soaked reunion of performers who’d worked with Douglass and Littell back in the ’90s on shows like “The Wandering Whore” and “No Miracle: A Consolation,” the latter a song cycle rooted in the losses of the AIDS epidemic.

Philip Littell, from left, Eliot Douglass and Inara George.

(Thomas Heegard)

After her years of childhood dramatics at the Theatricum — Littell remembers meeting “this bird of a girl with these huge eyes” — George had gone to Boston’s Emerson College to study acting but dropped out and returned to L.A., where she eventually made her name as a musician. (In addition to the Bird and the Bee, her duo with the Grammy-winning producer Greg Kurstin, she’s also played with the Living Sisters and sung with Foo Fighters.)

Yet her postcollege stint in the experimental theater scene always stuck with her, she says. Reconnecting with Littell, whose other work includes the libretto for André Previn’s operatic adaptation of “A Streetcar Named Desire,” and Douglass, who played piano for years with Cirque du Soleil, got George thinking about how she might help preserve their music and bring it to a modern audience.

In 2024, she put together a trio for an intimate gig at Pasadena’s Healing Force of the Universe record store; her old friend Mike Andrews, who produced her solo albums, was there and told her they should record the material. Given the number of ballads she’d worked up, George asked Douglass and Littell to write a couple of new uptempo tunes; among the ones they came up with was the frisky “La Lune S’en Va.”

Does George speak French?

“Not at all,” she says, smiling. “But Philip does. It’s so fun — I was like, ‘Yeah, I’ll take it.’ I think the pronunciation’s OK.”

She and a small crew of musicians cut the album live in the studio over three days — in part an attempt to capture some energy, in part an acknowledgment of an economic reality.

“Is music just a hobby for me now? Yeah, it is,” says George, who’s putting “Songs” out through her own label, Release Me Records. “I mean, I’m spending money to do it.” She worries about the disappearance of music’s middle class even as she notes happily that “Again & Again” by the Bird and the Bee “recently had a little TikTok moment,” as she puts it. (With 86 million streams, it’s the duo’s most popular track on Spotify, followed by an ethereal cover of the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.”)

Yet all that seems less important to George than taking the opportunity to honor “these incredibly talented, very sensitive people” who she says shaped the artist she became.

“Their songs just mean so much to me,” she says of Douglass and Littell. “More than ever, this is the music I want to listen to.”

At the outset, Richard Baines says: “You don’t need binoculars.” This is not what I expect to hear on a walk where the main focus is birds. The sun has yet to rise, but we can see our way across muddy ground crunchy with ice. That is the next surprise in a day that will be full of them: we are still in February but Richard points out that ornithological spring is well under way. “Birds are starting to sing,” he says. “Some, like the crossbill, might already have laid eggs.”

We follow a path up to an open ridge, but bird sounds are conspicuously absent. Richard turns back and heads down into a sheltered wooded valley. We have driven up from Pickering to the North York Moors, an area he has been exploring for more than 40 years, his experiences charted in recent memoir The Rarity Garden. As a 14-year-old budding ornithologist he decided to learn bird songs and calls. “I had spent too many woodland walks being disappointed by not seeing any birds, but I could hear a great deal,” he says. “When I started to prioritise sound above sight, the trees came alive and I have never had a bad woodland walk since.” Our walk today aims to land that message for me.

As we drop down into a wooded glade, a large bird flits out of the trees, turns and is gone. “Great start!” says Richard. “Male goshawk.”

Now we stop in front of a small stand of alder and hazel. A bird is singing, so I get out my phone and load Merlin, the app that has revolutionised my ability to identify birds. “Yes, let’s see what you get,” says Richard with a twinkle in his eye. I glance down and see three bird names quickly ping on to the screen. Song thrush, chaffinch and blackbird. I look up. Something is not quite right: all the sounds are emanating from the same place. And then it happens: an unmistakable mewling cry, coming from the top of the alder, where all the other sounds have originated. Merlin duly obliges: “Buzzard.”

Richard is chuckling. “Any thoughts?”

“That thrush just did something incredible.”

We listen a little longer, then Richard explains how a lifetime of learning bird sounds took an unexpected turn in 2014 when Cornell University brought out its gamechanging app, Merlin, a bird-sound identifier that now has more than 10 million users worldwide.

“It’s a brilliant tool for learning birdsong, but it’s also revealing lots of unexpected information,” he says.

One such moment came on a walk in May 2025. Richard was leading a group looking for nightjars in clear-felled areas of plantation woodland near where we are walking. A participant who had lagged behind suddenly came running back to the group with the news that Merlin had picked up a nightingale’s song. Richard immediately turned the group around and went back. “Nightingales are rarely sighted north of Cambridgeshire, never in the North York Moors,” he says. “It would have been momentous.”

Instead, they found a song thrush.

“It may have learned the song on its spring migration, maybe even in the Mediterranean. Merlin is teaching a lot, but it’s also revealing gaps in our knowledge.”

The song thrush is not the only bird playing tricks. As the bottom of the valley flattens out, I spot a great tit landing in the willows by the stream, then singing like no great tit I’ve heard before.

“It’s mimicking a marsh tit,” says Richard. By the time I get Merlin going, a song thrush has started singing. This time, with the sun risen, we can see it clearly, and Richard whispers: “It’s doing a nuthatch.”

Merlin pops up with: “Coot.”

We both stare at the screen, then replay the recording. Sure enough, there is a snippet of low quacks. This time, even Richard is staggered. “That is a first. There definitely isn’t a coot within 10 miles of here.”

Standing in a puddle of icy water, I am suddenly aware that I may have just witnessed a small addition to human knowledge. Significantly, I have not once thought about taking a picture.

For Richard, these reactions are what make the walks special. “Being thrilled by bird sound really frees people up, especially if you’ve got used to the idea that success is a good photograph.”

He has brought people with sight loss on the walks. “They are often much more sensitive to sound and so it’s fascinating to get their skills involved.”

We carry on and, with Richard’s guidance, a whole new sonic world opens up for me, including, far away, the honking of pink-footed geese arriving from Iceland. They are so high I can’t see them, but Richard thinks he knows where they might land, so we quickly transfer to the nearby flooded fields of Ryedale. Extreme cold in eastern Europe has sent thousands of geese towards the UK, and now we see hundreds of pink-footed geese coming down to land and, among them, the black barred chests of Russian white-fronted geese (“white-fronted” refers to the bird’s forehead, not chest). In a normal year, Yorkshire might welcome a couple of dozen of these, but now we are witnessing several hundred in one place. “A once in a 25-year event,” says Richard.

Having already flown about 3,000 miles from their Siberian breeding grounds to the Dutch coast, these birds have decided that an extra few hundred miles across the North Sea is a good idea. That seems like magic, but there is more. Next day, Richard phones. “I’ve been looking at the photos of those geese and there was something even more unusual among them: another Siberian visitor, a single tundra bean goose.”

I like that. Despite my new interest in sound, I’ll hang on to my camera.

Yorkshire Coast Nature offers various nature walks, including Bird Sound Safaris, from £40

WASHINGTON — Billions fewer birds are flying through North American skies than decades ago and their numbers are shrinking ever faster, mostly due to the combination of intensive agriculture and warming temperatures, a new study finds.

Nearly half of the 261 species studied showed losses important enough to be statistically significant, and more than half of those in decline have seen losses accelerate since 1987, according to a study published Thursday in the journal Science. The study is the first to look at trends in their decrease, where they are shrinking the most and what the declines are connected to, rather than total population.

“Not only are we losing birds, we are losing them faster and faster from year to year,” said study co-author Marta Jarzyna, an ecologist at Ohio State University. “Except for forest birds, almost every group is doing poorly. So we need to ask ourselves a question. How do we protect these groups of birds?”

The only consolation is that the birds that are shrinking in numbers the fastest are species — such as the European starling, American crow, grackle and house sparrow — that aren’t yet at risk of going extinct, said study lead author Francois Leroy, also an Ohio State ecologist.

“The thing is that species extinction, they start with a decline in abundance,” Leroy said, adding that “the decline is somehow maybe giving a preview of what it could lead to in terms of species extinction.”

Cornell University conservation scientist Kenneth Rosenberg, who wasn’t part of the study, said the species declining fastest in the new research “are often considered pests or ‘trash birds,’ but if our environment cannot support healthy populations of these extreme generalists and extremely adaptable species that are tolerant of humans, then that is a very strong indicator that the environment is also toxic to humans and all other life.”

A 2019 study by Rosenberg of the same bird species found North America had 3 billion fewer birds than in 1970, but didn’t look at changes in the rate of loss or causes.

Biggest bird losses in areas warming most

The biggest locations for acceleration of bird loss were in the Mid-Atlantic, the Midwest and California, the study found. And geography proved important when Leroy and Jarzyna looked for reasons why so many bird species are shrinking ever faster.

When it came to population declines — not the acceleration — the scientists noticed bigger losses farther south. When they did a deeper analysis, they statistically connected those losses to warmer temperatures from human-caused climate change.

“In regions where temperatures increase the most, we are seeing strongest declines in populations,” Jarzyna said. “On the other hand, the acceleration of those declines, that’s mostly driven by agricultural practices.”

Farmland issues speed up bird declines

The scientists found statistical correlations between accelerating decline and high fertilizer and pesticide use and the amount of cropland, Leroy said. He said they couldn’t say any of those caused the acceleration of losses, but it indicates agriculture in general is a factor.

“The stronger the agriculture, the faster we will lose birds,” Leroy said.

Jarzyna said there is a “strong interaction” between climate change and agriculture in their effect on bird populations.

“We found that agricultural intensification causes stronger accelerations of decline in regions where climate warmed the most,” Jarzyna said.

McGill University wildlife biologist David Bird, who wasn’t part of the study, said it was done well and that its conclusions made sense. With a growing human population, agriculture practices are intensified, more bird habitats are being converted to cropland, modern machinery often grind up nests and eggs, and single crop plantings offer less possibilities for birds to find food and nests, said Bird, the editor of “Birds of Canada.”

“The biggest impact of agricultural intensity though is our war on insects. Numerous recent studies have shown that insect populations in many places throughout the world, including the U.S., have crashed by well over 40 percent,” Bird said in an email. “Many of the birds in this new study showing population declines depend heavily on insects for food.”

Birds do a lot for humans

This study is both “alarming” and “sobering” because of the sheer numbers of losses and the patterns in those accelerating declines, said Richard Gregory, head of monitoring conservation science at University College London. He was not part of the research.

The paper shows that people need to change the way they live to reduce human-caused warming, reduce agricultural intensity, monoculture of crops and broad application of chemicals, said Cornell University ornithologist Andrew Farnsworth, who wasn’t part of the study.

“Here is why this study is especially important. Birds do a lot for humans,’’ McGill biologist Bird said in an email. ”They feed us, clothe us, eat pests, pollinate our plants and crops, and warn us about impending environmental disasters. With their songs, colors, and variety, birds enrich our lives … and recent studies show that their immediate presence actually increases our well-being and happiness and can even prolong our lives! To me, a world without birds is simply unfathomable.”

Borenstein writes for the Associated Press.