Echoes of the Wordsmith

I bet you know the Wordsmith.

The Wordsmith could be your mother, your father or your brother. The Wordsmith could be a co-worker or friend, a shop clerk or the boy down the street who likes to shoot some hoops as the sun waivers out on lazy summer nights. You might even be the Wordsmith, because sometimes, even the Wordsmith doesn’t know for sure.

The Wordsmith shapes language into something new, something meaningful, or something trivial. The Wordsmith might forge the next great American novel or the trash marinating in dust at the depths of a used book store in Massachusetts. The Wordsmith might be wealthy and renowned, or use a boatload of strained metaphors and pseudo-intellectual stylings in their first blog post on the corner of Unfocused and Unknown, Internet, USA. But whatever the case, the Wordsmith is always tinkering.

I know that I like to tinker and I know that I’m a Wordsmith. And wherever I fit in, I know the fire’s hot and I’m always ready to start forging.