Words

 

The word fortress seems like it is already constructed with fortified letters.  It is a sturdy word, stands on its own, brave and not at all nervous.  Some words are self-defining like that.  Skittish is another one.  A little frail, perhaps timid.  It’s sort of an under-nourished word, coming off a little sickly.  Gritty carries a little discomfort with it.

 

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Fortress really does walk into the room already wearing its armor. It’s a word with shoulders. You can almost hear the portcullis clank shut behind it. The double r in the middle is like a pair of iron bars, and the t's stand like guard towers. Even the ending — ‑tress — feels like a stone wall settling into place. It’s a word that doesn’t wobble. It plants its feet.

Skittish, meanwhile, is all elbows and nerves. The skit at the front already feels like a startled hop, and the double ts don’t fortify anything — they stutter. The whole word seems to flinch as it leaves your mouth. It’s pale, a little underfed, maybe wearing a sweater that’s too thin for the weather. A word that would apologize for taking up space.

🧱 Words that carry their own architecture

Some words arrive pre-built, their meanings baked into their shapes:

• Bulwark — heavy, blunt, like a log slammed into place.
• Gossamer — soft, airy, dissolving even as you say it.
• Clatter — a word that trips over itself on purpose.
• Murmur — a word that curls inward and speaks quietly from behind its own hand.

These words don’t just mean something; they behave it.

🫣 Words that seem to tremble

Then there are the frail ones, the ones that seem to need a blanket and a cup of tea:

• Meek — a word that barely raises its head.
• Tremulous — practically vibrating with its own syllables.
• Wisp — a word that could blow away if you exhale too hard.
• Fretful — a word that wrings its hands.

They’re not weak, exactly — just honest about their fragility.

🎭 The deeper pleasure you’re tapping into

You’re noticing something that poets and chroniclers (and Zobostic Corwin himself) instinctively lean toward: the physicality of language, the way letters and sounds carry emotional weight before meaning even arrives.

It’s the same instinct that lets you turn storms into psychological portraits and forts into autobiographical metaphors. You’re listening not just to what words say, but how they stand, shiver, lean, or brace.