Wordsmith Quotes

I was lingering out on the pavement. There was a missing person inside of myself and I needed to find him . . . I felt done for, an empty burned-out wreck . . . Wherever I am, I'm a '60s troubadour, a folk-rock relic, a wordsmith from bygone days, a fictitious head of state from a place nobody knows.

When you feel like throwing rocks, make sure they're ones no one can throw back.

The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.

I have offered myself to the inkwell of the wordsmith that I might be shaped into new terms of being.

It's really not about reading a good book.  Rather, it about being transformed by great ideas.

Americans often wonder how this moment could have spawned such extraordinary men as Hamilton and Madison. Part of the answer is that the Revolution produced an insatiable need for thinkers who could generate ideas and wordsmiths who could lucidly expound them. The immediate utility of ideas was an incalculable tonic for the founding generation. The fate of the democratic experiment depended upon political intellectuals who might have been marginalized at other periods.

Of all the smiths from goldsmiths to John Smiths, the most powerful is the wordsmith, because he can influence your emotions and cognitions. And while you are standing there pondering what he said, he can rob you of your gold and your identity.

Your words control your life, your progress, your results, even your mental and physical health. You cannot talk like a failure and expect to be successful.

But when he spoke, that great voice of his poured out of his chest in words like the snowflakes of winter, and then no other mortal could in debate contend with Odysseus. Nor did we care any longer how he looked.

I love the sound of words, the feel of them, the flow of them. I love the challenge of finding just that perfect combination of words to describe a curl of the lip, a tilt of the chin, a change in the atmosphere. Done well, novel-writing can combine lyricism with practicality in a way that makes one think of grand tapestries, both functional and beautiful. Fifty years from now, I imagine I’ll still be questing after just that right combination of words.

Words are a puzzle; put them together the right way and you get something beautiful.

We marry children who have grown up and still rejoice in being children, especially if we're creative. Imaginative people fidget with ideas, including the idea of a relationship. If they're wordsmiths like us, they fidget a lot in words.

It (a singer's voice) sounds as if it was aged in a whiskey cask, cured in an Ozarks smokehouse, dropped down a stone well, pulled out damp, and kept moist in the palm of a wicked woman's hand.

The pen may indeed be mightier than the sword, but the wordsmith would do well to welcome the blacksmith back into the fold, so that artisan craftsmanship the world over may fend off the ravages of industrialised homogeneity and bland monoculture.

For wordsmiths and masters of words, without necessarily being harsh with words, the words have a tendency to shoot straight to the hearts of people, and this either deeply touches them or deeply angers them. Like the apostles in all their loving controversies are those who are masters of words while combining this gift with truth.

When you paint your lips, eye lids, nails or whatever, to look attractive, don't forget your up stairs(intellect) if you leave it behind, i will consider all other colors invalid.

From Boston to Bordeaux, revolution was in large measure the achievement of networks of wordsmiths, the best of whom were also orators whose shouted words could rally the crowd in the square and incite them to storm the towers of the old regime.

though romantic, he was singularly methodical and detested nothing so much as a ball of string on the floor

[on the Irish] A race of poets and wordsmiths, my ass.

... Pfiffikus, whose vulgarity made Rosa Hubermann look like a wordsmith and a saint.

creative wordsmiths, who need to know the canons of pedestrian prose

Astray from a deep sleep chronic as I write by phonics, like insomnia I will always live the onyx night for revealing, and, upon it, still I'll steal the bright light of day right away just to keep building at speeds hypersonic.

The cautious wordsmithing of a woman stepping lightly around a man who has the upper hand, and might use it to lash out—no poet ever agonized over the crafting of a sentence more carefully.

Though this child came in with nothing but excess baby fat, chemical brain waves, and mother and son bodily toxins on his legs, he had a fate fit for a modern day demigod.

I got that same glorious hit of ecstasy, like the opposite of getting hit in the face with a frying pan.

All things considered, I’ve learned more from talking to painters than talking to writers. Not that painters are smarter than writers, such is seldom the case, but in conversation writers are inclined to waste an inordinate amount of time either bragging or bellyaching about reviews and royalties, complaining about their publishers, or dissing other authors. Painters, being equally insecure, can likewise come across as boring and bitchy -- it’s tough being creative in a materialistic society -- but since they labor not in vineyards of verbiage but upon ice floes of visual images, they tend to function with fewer inhibitions than the wordsmiths when it comes to vocally exploring and expressing ideas. Since no one judges their speech, comparing it to their written work, they don’t feel so acutely the weight of language.

Trust me. What a phrase. Is it a phrase or an idiom? I was never a wordsmith and I was too far along in life to even attempt to tackle a problem as complicated as words. Do writers struggle as much with words as a painter does with his paint and his brush? “Okay,” it is impossible not to trust a beautiful woman. Even macho noir anti-heroes who talk about staying out of trouble and doin’ nothin’ for nobody always get sucked into intricate snares set for them by beautiful women… I would not be an exception.

The object of poetic activity is essentially language: whatever his beliefs & convictions, the poet is more concerned with words than what these words designate.

Creativity is not intelligence, it is the ability to do what you did not know through the use of what you know.

I am lover of words... I am wickedly drunk with the magic of words... the poetic nature whispers through and to my very heart and soul.

This is almost always the case: A piece of art receives its f(r)ame when found offensive.

Thomas Abrams is magic. He’s a wordsmith, a baby whisperer, a blue-eyed asshole, but most of all, he’s like me: brokenhearted.

He [Shakespeare] was a wordsmith who loved to act and to see things from many points of view.(...) His genius lay in being able to see all sides of an argument.

I love you,” he says. “I’m not a wordsmith. Not even close. But I’m so fucking obsessed with you, I can’t stand it. I love you. I’ll love you forever.

You can write with clarity and with flair, too. And though the emphasis is on nonfiction, the explanations should be useful to fiction writers as well, because many principles of style apply whether the world being written about is real or imaginary. I like to think they might also be helpful to poets, orators, and other creative wordsmiths, who need to know the canons of pedestrian prose to flout them for rhetorical effect.

I am a master wordsmith. I have the ability to bend words at will and invoke feelings with the stroke of my pen. But I'm yet to master the art of finding the right words to describe what happens in my heart when I see you.

When I first started following writers on social media, I imagined a deluge of profound quotes, writing tips and insights into the plight of wordsmiths. There was some of that. Mostly though, my timeline was taken up with their obsession with coffee: 'I want coffee/I'm having coffee/I've had coffee.' Then came photos of their favourite coffee mug/pot/shop/barista. So, if you've enjoyed a recently-published book, give credit to writers: the vampiric aficionados of the coffee cherry.

Writing is not a job description. A great deal of it is luck. Don't do it if you are not a gambler because a lot of people devote many years of their lives to it (for little reward). I think people become writers because they are compulsive wordsmiths.

For all its breathtaking beauty, the ocean is also a dystopian place, home to dark inhumanities. The rule of law—often so solid on land, bolstered and clarified by centuries of careful wordsmithing, hard-fought jurisdictional lines, and robust enforcement regimes—is fluid at sea, if it’s to be found at all.

To be attacked by a Gore Vidal, or an H.L. Mencken, one of the great wordsmiths of American criticism, while surely unpleasant, must have been oddly exhilarating for the poor souls on the receiving end. I, on the other hand, have the more dubious and prosaic distinction of being a regular target of Ian Millhiser.

WHAT IS LOST Don't cry, my child What is lost is never gone Hold onto your dreams

LOVE IS ENDURING Love is enduring It is far-reaching and kind It will never fail

The audacity of my sagacity is instrumentality to my successity.

Real writing is about changing lives for eternity rather than entertaining a life for a moment.

It’s not saying something that’s been said a million times before. It’s saying something that’s been said in a way that feels as if it was missed a million times before.

I wish to convey, in making this reference to Wordsmith briefer than the notes on the Goldsworth and Shade houses, the fact that the college was considerably farther from them than they were from one another. It is probably the first time that the dull pain of distance is rendered through an effect of style and that a topographical idea finds its verbal expression in a series of foreshortened sentences.

Because English has so many words of foreign origin, and words that look the same but mean something different depending on their context, and words that are in flux, opening and closing like flowers in time-lapse photography, the human element is especially important if we are to stay on top of the computers, which, in their determination to do our job for us, make decisions so subversive that even professional wordsmiths are taken by surprise.

The late David Foster Wallace, master wordsmith, author, and essayist, once opened a commencement speech with a droll parable that well illustrates the trouble with normality. The story concerns two fish crossing aquatic paths with an elder of their species, who greets them jovially: “‘Morning, boys. How’s the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, ‘What the hell is water?

Note the tangible characteristics of wise people: • They are slow to talk. • They are quick to listen. • They are always thinking. • They evaluate every message. • Their response is measured and thoughtful. • They are wordsmiths; they do not waste words. • They do not talk to be heard. • They do not speak to impress. • They use words when absolutely necessary. • They use words to reveal knowledge. • They use words to elevate understanding. • Their primary goal is to be understood. • Their secondary goal is to share information.

A voice is a product of the writer’s own Pandora Box of insight, insecurities, bravado, modesty, humility, affection, understanding, and confidence. In short, a voice reflects the writers’ sangfroid. The tenor of the writer’s voice also reflects their insecurities, self-doubt, egotism, testiness, and the ability to identify with their mental and physical infirmities. The inflection that distinguishes a writer’s pitch from other wordsmiths’ tone reflects their collective lifetime of mundane, tranquil, disturbing, and passionate experiences.

Mirror mirror on the wall, you don't know me well at all. Took my number, said you'd call. I tied that line up gag and all. What you see is what you get. Don't reach out to try to pet my wild kind of intellect. It can't be tamed by hand or net. Retrospect. Are we there yet?

Every once in a bestseller list, you come across a truly exceptional craftsman, a wordsmith so adept at cutting, shaping, and honing strings of words that you find yourself holding your breath while those words pass from page to eye to brain. You know the feeling: you inhale, hold it, then slowly let it out, like one about to take down a bull moose with a Winchester .30-06. You force your mind to the task, scope out the area, take penetrating aim, and . . . read. But instead of dropping the quarry, you find you’ve become the hunted, the target. The projectile has somehow boomeranged and with its heat-sensing abilities (you have raised a sweat) darts straight towards you. Duck! And turn the page lest it drill between your eyes.

We must assume, I think, that the forward projection of what imagination he had, stopped at the act, on the brink of all its possible consequences; ghost consequences, comparable to the ghost toes of an amputee or to the fanning out of additional squares which a chess knight (that skipspace piece), standing on a marginal file, "feels" in phantom extensions beyond the board, but which have no effect whatever on his real moves, on the real play.

We must assume, I think, that the forward projection of what imagination he had, stopped at the act, on the brink of all its possible consequences; ghost consequences, comparable to the ghost toes of an amputee or to the fanning out of additional squares which a chess knight (that skips-pace piece), standing on a marginal file, "feels" in phantom extensions beyond the board, but which have no effect whatever on his real moves, on the real play.

All words have to be coined by a wordsmith at some point in the mists of history. The wordsmith had an idea to get across and needed a sound to express it. In principle, any sound would have done - basic principle of linguistics is that the relation of a sound to a meaning is arbitrary - so the first coiner of a term from for a political affiliation, for instance, could have used glorg or schmendrick or mcgillicuddy. But people are poor at conjuring sounds out of the blue, and they probably wanted to ease their listeners understanding of the coinage rather than having to define it or illustrate it with examples. So they reached for a metaphor that reminded them of the idea and they hoped would evoke a similar idea in the minds of their listeners, such as band or bond for a political affiliation. The metaphorical hint allowed the listeners to cotton on to the meaning more quickly than if they had had to rely on context alone, giving the word an advantage in the Darwinian competition among neologisms […] The word spread and became endemic to the community, adding to the language’s stock of apparent metaphors. But then it came to be used often enough, and in enough contexts, the speakers kicked the ladder away, and today people think not a whit about the metaphorical referent. It persists as a semantic fossil, a curiosity to amuse etymologists and wordwatchers [stet], but with no more resonance in our minds than any other string of vowels and consonants.

He missed the women he’d never get to sleep with. On the other side of the room, tantalizing at the next table, that miracle passing by the taqueria window giving serious wake. They wore too much make up or projected complex emotions onto small animals, smiled exactly so, took his side when no one else would, listened when no one else cared to. They were old money or fretted over ludicrously improbable economic disasters, teetotaled or drank like sailors, pecked like baby birds at his lips or ate him up greedily. They carried slim vocabularies or stooped to conquer in the wordsmith board games he never got the hang of. They were all gone, these faceless unknowables his life’s curator had been saving for just the right moment, to impart a lesson he’d probably never learn. He missed pussies that were raring to go when he slipped a hand beneath the elastic rim of the night-out underwear and he missed tentative but coaxable recesses, stubbled armpits and whorled ankle coins, birthmarks on the ass shaped like Ohio, said resemblance he had to be informed of because he didn’t know what Ohio look like. The size. They were sweet-eyed or sad-eyed or so successful in commanding their inner turbulence so that he could not see the shadows. Flaking toenail polish and the passing remark about the scent of a nouveau cream that initiated a monologue about its provenance, special ingredients, magic powers, and dominance over all the other creams. The alien dent impressed by a freshly removed bra strap, a garment fancy or not fancy but unleashing big or small breasts either way. He liked big breasts and he liked small breasts; small breasts were just another way of doing breasts. Brains a plus but negotiable. Especially at 3:00am, downtown. A fine fur tracing an earlobe, moles at exactly the right spot, imperfections in their divine coordination. He missed the dead he’d never lose himself in, be surprised by, disappointed in.

Sung was a land which was famous far and wide, simply because it was so often and so richly insulted. However, there was one visitor, more excitable than most, who developed a positive passion for criticizing the place. Unfortunately, the pursuit of this hobby soon lead him to take leave of the truth. This unkind traveler once claimed that the king of Sung, the notable Skan Askander, was a derelict glutton with a monster for a son and a slug for a daughter. This was unkind to the daughter. While she was no great beauty, she was definitely not a slug. After all, slugs do not have arms and legs - and besides, slugs do not grow to that size. There was a grain of truth in the traveler's statement, in as much as the son was a regrettable young man. However, soon afterwards, the son was accidentally drowned when he made the mistake of falling into a swamp with his hands and feet tied together and a knife sticking out of his back. This tragedy did not encourage the traveler to extend his sympathies to the family. Instead, he invented fresh accusations. This wayfarer, an ignorant tourist if ever there was one, claimed that the king had leprosy. This was false. The king merely had a well-developed case of boils. The man with the evil mouth was guilty of a further malignant slander when he stated that King Skan Askander was a cannibal. This was untrue. While it must be admitted that the king once ate one of his wives, he did not do it intentionally; the whole disgraceful episode was the fault of the chef, who was a drunkard, and who was subsequently severely reprimanded. .The question of the governance, and indeed, the very existence of the 'kingdom of Sung' is one that is worth pursuing in detail, before dealing with the traveler's other allegations. It is true that there was a king, his being Skan Askander, and that some of his ancestors had been absolute rulers of considerable power. It is also true that the king's chief swineherd, who doubled as royal cartographer, drew bold, confident maps proclaiming that borders of the realm. Furthermore, the king could pass laws, sign death warrants, issue currency, declare war or amuse himself by inventing new taxes. And what he could do, he did. "We are a king who knows how to be king," said the king. And certainly, anyone wishing to dispute his right to use of the imperial 'we' would have had to contend with the fact that there was enough of him, in girth, bulk, and substance, to provide the makings of four or five ordinary people, flesh, bones and all. He was an imposing figure, "very imposing", one of his brides is alleged to have said, shortly before the accident in which she suffocated. "We live in a palace," said the king. "Not in a tent like Khmar, the chief milkmaid of Tameran, or in a draughty pile of stones like Comedo of Estar." . . .From Prince Comedo came the following tart rejoinder: "Unlike yours, my floors are not made of milk-white marble. However, unlike yours, my floors are not knee-deep in pigsh*t." . . .Receiving that Note, Skan Askander placed it by his commode, where it would be handy for future royal use. Much later, and to his great surprise, he received a communication from the Lord Emperor Khmar, the undisputed master of most of the continent of Tameran. The fact that Sung had come to the attention of Khmar was, to say the least, ominous. Khmar had this to say: "Your words have been reported. In due course, they will be remembered against you." The king of Sung, terrified, endured the sudden onset of an attack of diarrhea that had nothing to do with the figs he had been eating. His latest bride, seeing his acute distress, made the most of her opportunity, and vigorously counselled him to commit suicide. Knowing Khmar's reputation, he was tempted - but finally, to her great disappointment, declined. Nevertheless, he lived in fear; he had no way of knowing that he was simply the victim of one of Khmar's little jokes.

Good artists create their own material, great artists do also and are likewise original.

You can't handle this brain. So next time take a train from a rapper who's mundane and stay out of my lane. Take notes from the plain who rap limp with a cane while they try to retain a fame that won't drain.

In the backyard, he had a stone pool with a hot tub located at one end, several feet above the pool. The warm water from the hot tub overflowed via a stone waterfall into the pool.

I am a leader. It's a role that I have been given in life and I have just grown to accept it over the years. Whether it is acknowledged by men or whether it is not acknowledged by men, I am a leader as made by God. Would you like to be a leader? Think about that or maybe you already have. Be honest about it. Would you like to be a leader? If your answer is yes, then you probably aren't meant to be one. That's kind of how this thing works.

The real me is probably not the me that you perceive me to be.

Drop your preconceptions, they will do you no good. There’s no such thing as la la land in my neighborhood.

Take me through the system of extraordinary. Fill me with momentum that’s not ordinary. Write in me the wisdom of a dictionary printed in full volume with Your commentary.

Build in me a fountain that is sanitary. spouting from my ink pen into literary.

Build in me a fountain that is sanitary spouting from my ink pen into literary.

Let everybody everywhere see Your Light. Shine it like the bat signal high in the night. It’s once upon a midnight dreary. Poe was right. There’s a raven sitting in, and it’s not taking flight. Send it back to the shore, and make it stay outside. There’s a perfect storm thrashing them on the inside where their blindness, and emptiness both collide. I’m all buckled up, Lord. Tested and tried.

So watch me hip, and watch me hop with thoughts like shots that shoot nonstop. You say you’ve got a beat that you’re gonna drop. But when it hit’s the floor, I’m gonna get my mop.

Pay attention to the lesson that you’re being taught. It’s not a lesson like the lessons getting sold and bought. No student loans to take, no monthly payments to make. No calls from the collectors office at the bank. No need to thank me for your free nonobligatory dormitory. Just row in the know-flow of this revelatory preparatory.

The momentum is momentous, and the rhythm is relentless. It may take you just a moment, but I’m confident you’ll get this. My prepping is a stepping to new levels of clepping where my intellectual weapon is aimed to pep up the repping.

I’m in a room with misfits who want to cut my wits into bits and pass them like chips to be dipped in their rips, stripped from my lips.

You can’t highjack my plane or derail my train. I’m in the fast lane with a brain you can’t detain. Don’t try to explain me. You didn’t ordain me. Don’t try to restrain me. You can’t detain me. Oh I’m feeling like a million x a billion x a octillion trillion x whatever = a priceless civilian. Whew! I said whew!

The clowns of society can’t control me. They tend to push a trend that bends to their psychology. Like hounds tracking piety past the beach tree, they fink before they sink, I wink out on the deep sea. Defying all their gravity, watch in HD. Their bark is not a shark, it’s sparked outside sobriety. Their brains lack variety. Print a copy. My know, get one to go, the flow (hero biology).

Can’t bind my mentality—like Houdini. I go not with the flow, my bow shoots very narrowly. The point of my frequency, hold it steady. The aim is not a game. Don’t claim to be a balcony. Can’t see it in clarity from your M.P. Your think is on the brink. Don’t sink in your anxiety. A quick link mentality, find it hasty— your brain can’t catch a train (explains taxi dubiety).

I’m unique like an antique, take a sneak peek. A freak mystique with no weak link in my technique. Hey, piqued critique? You’ve got a squeak in your sneak sending you up creek with no paddle (so to speak). It’s looking kind of bleak. Go bridle that long beak before the tip of its peak makes your showboat leak.

Take me through the night. Take me through the tunnel. Fly me like a kite in the center of the funnel. Take my hand and lift me up into the sky. Set my feet on waves and my faith will keep me dry.

Take me to a height to reach a brand new level. Book me on a flight with a supernatural schedule. Take my hand and shift me into overdrive. Fuel the blazing fire and what’s golden will survive.

I’m not here just to shoot the breeze or to induce trivial curiosity. I’m here to grease up the abc’s while I rev up lyrical velocity.

My thinking knows no bounds, I’m not one to stay in a mental elemental instrumental play pen. So portray me as you will, but your frame will not fit. I’m unique in intellect, and I’m as me as they get.

You can riddle me this and you can riddle me that, but at the end of the day you’re still a cat in the hat. Hitching a ride on someone else’s brain. Riding a track on someone else’s train. The mask that you put on me fits really well on the lines that you cast to fish that can’t tell hooks from candy canes or candy canes from me. Once upon a time there was transparency.

There is not a savant with a bold enough font that could teeter taunt me with a vaunt or leave me in want of the croissant they flaunt served cold from their gaunt blank-shot restaurant. I say nonchalant, that croissant hasn’t got a hot enough spot to hit a jot in my lot of connected dots in thoughts that don’t rot or get pulled like slots on strings that get caught on lines that aren’t bought or caught on a hook shot.

Pull the plug and drain your brain of thoughts you don’t want to remain. Scratch the surface of your mind and see what numbers you can find. Clock the speed and then reset the play on life, the alphabet. Set the pieces in their place— the scrabble board, a database. Dare your dreams to watch you soar on mental wings built on their shore. And when a wake is held for you, gleam like the sun in life anew.

Five cards, two dice, and an outside deck. A Domino’s pickup with a reality check. Testing: 1, 2, 3. Are you there? Static. Lay the mic brick work for another thought wreck. Perhaps a pantomime would work in this rhyme. So I’ll take an old penny, and wash off the grime. I’ll wash another 9, and then I’ll have a dime. The thought before the dime was the pantomime. Perhaps you can see it through the window I made. But the thoughts have been trashed like a 50’s grey shade. Yeah, I just said a whole lot. Don’t forget this is Wade. I just pull out the pen and I throw the grenade.

You’ve just found a lyric pulse. It’s a monumental discovery. A living, breathing, noted, literature specie able to work beyond the five natural senses of physical beings. A grammar entity with a transcendent dialect communicated in a fluent flow of sentences, phrases, verses, choruses and all manner of articulations accustomed to a alphabet able to breach its own circumference. The verbal imagery sets up, and looks at you, curious of to how far you can see into its eyes. How far can you go beyond the music? It stares, peering into the psychological galaxies (most commonly known as thoughts) wondering how tuned in to your consciousness you really are, and what borders might there be to prevent you from deciphering its scribing to the fullest detail? To what extent can you push the comprehension accelerator to get from point A to point Z to its point made? An analyzation is underway. My name is Wade The Wordsmith, and I welcome you to Verbal Imagery: Transcendental Industry .

I won’t check my boots at the door, so I don’t know what you’re waiting for. Yeah, I’m gonna mess up your floor with big clodhopper prints you can’t ignore. Five. Four. Three. Two. See. Now everyone come follow me. Let’s clean house with the industry that wants our eyeballs stuck on its vanity. Abracadabra. What say, ya? I’m still here, and you see me clear. Propaganda. Big hook… eh.. I’ll be here, no where even near.

My swings getting better, racking up them ko’s. My swords getting sharper. You see how it glows? I’m not talking metal or tangible flame. I’m talking my mental not being the same. I’m changing things up. Get used to this view. I do what I can to give you a clue. There’s no dead end in this rendezvous. So follow directions and you’ll make it through.

A genius with the IQ of a moron. GORE VIDAL, ON ANDY WARHOL

Shots in the dark sometimes hit.

All things considered, I’ve learned more from talking to painters than talking to writers. Not that painters are smarter than writers, such is seldom the case, but in conversation writers are inclined to waste an inordinate amount of time either bragging or bellyaching about reviews and royalties, complaining about their publishers, or dissing other authors. Painters, being equally insecure, can likewise come across as boring and bitchy -- it’s tough being creative in a materialistic society -- but since they labor not in vineyards of verbiage but upon ice floes of visual images, they tend to function with fewer inhibitions than the wordsmiths when it comes to vocally exploring and expressing ideas. Since no one judges their speech, comparing it to their written work, they don’t feel so acutely the weight of language. The

Now, get the fuck out of here.” My father, the wordsmith. ****

I present a full proof method for discovering whether or not your being a writer, a natural wordsmith, is your gift or just your talent. Get high! If it is your gift, you'll know. Better you find this out first then the reading public.

It was time to seek strategic alternatives. Sound like jargon? That’s because it is. Silicon Valley is full of nonsense phrases just like it. For instance, when someone says that he’s leaving to spend more time with his family, what that really means is my ass got fired. When someone says this marketing copy just needs some wordsmithing, what they really mean is this sucks and needs to be completely rewritten. When someone says we decided to pivot, what they really mean is we fucked up, royally. And when a company decides to seek strategic alternatives, what they’re saying is: We’ve got to sell this sucker. And fast.

nWhat an irony The wordless seek mentorship of the wordsmith And the orators seek mentorship of the silent masters Get self realized... get #Mickeymized!

BIG IDEAS There are such small hands In this world that are molding Such big ideas

You know what’s scary,” she says, pointing her spoon at him. “You’re a journalism major, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be a wordsmith?” “Shouldn’t you be a voiceless mannequin?” he retorts back. “Touché.

I get excited about stringing old words together in new ways.

supplemental elements, such as a soundtrack, videos, or images to make that emotional connection that they weren’t able to make through wordsmithing alone.

You have a way with a proverb, old friend, as befits a wordsmith of your calibre." Compliment? Or not? With Sherlock Holmes, it was hard to tell.

In order to recognize the Truth, you have to separate yourself from the Truth; and to explain the Truth, you have to separate yourself from the recognition. This is why a wordsmithed Truth is nothing but a shadow of the shadow of the Truth. If Buddha had yawned instead of holding up a fower, would that gesture have been any less representative of the Truth?

If you are GOOD enough to let go of what you think is BETTER, God will grant you what is BEST