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| Silver Tongue |
I imagine myself to be a writer of sorts. For me, the act of writing is a very industrial process. Crates of words are delivered by forklift to be opened with hammers and crow bars, and the words then sorted and stacked in appropriate piles. A wooden framework is constructed to support the words as they are individually selected and positioned during the assembly process. Even if the blueprint calls for as specific word, it is often the case that that word either doesn't fit, or fits but doesn't look right, and then things need to be adjusted. Sometimes that's a little sanding around a rough edge to make it fit, sometimes that's a sledge hammer pummeling and a liberal application of body putty.
The bulk of what I turn out is the literary equivalent of
Edsels and
Corvairs. But every once in a while, all the pieces fit cleverly and out pops a
Bugatti.
I have had occasion recently to spend some time talking with my daughter. She is one of those people who is disgustingly clever. As I listen to her, I am often distracted by the Bugattis that roll effortlessly off of her silver tongue. Thought provoking observations entertainingly presented...you don't find that combination all to often.
Yes, yes I know that I am not necessarily an impartial judge here, but really,
look here. and make up your own mind.
Agreed.
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