Daniel sent us this one — he's asking about the proposal problem. You're a small business owner, you're the consultant, the accountant, the tech person, the whole thing. No dedicated sales team. Every hour you spend on a proposal is an hour you're not billing. So the instinct is to keep proposals lean, fast, templated. But that probably tanks your win rate. The question is: how do you craft something that's time-efficient but still feels sincere, specific, and actually persuasive — especially now that AI tools make it easy to churn out proposals that all sound exactly the same? And he wants us to talk about including concrete specifics — envisioned achievements, budget parameters, that kind of thing. There's a lot to dig into here.
The tension he's describing is real, and the numbers back it up. I was looking at some data from a consulting industry survey — the average proposal win rate across small consultancies hovers somewhere around twenty to thirty percent. But firms that customize their proposals, even modestly, see win rates jump by roughly fifteen to twenty percentage points. So you're not imagining the trade-off. The question is whether the extra time pays for itself, and the math says it usually does — if you're smart about where you spend that time.
Fifteen to twenty points is the difference between a business that's scraping by and one that's actually comfortable. But the "if you're smart about where you spend that time" part is doing a lot of work. What does smart actually look like?
The first thing to understand is what most small business proposals actually get wrong. It's not that they're too short or too templated — it's that they're backward. They're organized around the seller, not the buyer. "Here's who we are, here's our experience, here's our methodology, here's the timeline, here's the price." It's a brochure with a price tag at the end.
The "we we we" document. I've seen those. They feel like reading someone else's resume.
The buyer — who's probably reading three or four of these — is sitting there thinking, "This person spent zero time understanding my actual problem." So the most time-efficient thing you can do, paradoxically, is to spend the first chunk of your proposal budget on something that doesn't feel like proposal writing at all. It's discovery. Before you write a single word, you need to understand what's actually keeping this client up at night, what they've already tried, what failed, and what success would look like six months after the engagement ends.
You're saying the proposal starts before the proposal.
It has to. And this is where small businesses actually have a structural advantage they don't realize. A big firm sends a salesperson to do discovery, then a proposal team writes the document, then a subject matter expert gets looped in later. Three handoffs, three opportunities for the signal to degrade. The solo consultant does discovery, writes the proposal, and delivers the work. That continuity is a selling point, but it only works if the proposal reflects actual listening.
There's a version of this I've seen that works well — and it connects to what Daniel's saying about specifics. When you can say, in the proposal, "You mentioned that the current system breaks down during peak hours because of the legacy database" — something they actually told you — that one sentence does more persuasive work than three paragraphs of methodology.
It's the difference between "we understand your industry" and "we understand your situation." One is a claim, the other is evidence. And writing that sentence takes thirty seconds. You just have to have done the listening first.
Let me push on the time thing, because I think this is where people get stuck. You do discovery, you listen carefully, you take notes — great. But then you still have to actually write the thing. And writing is slow. What's the actual time budget here? If you're spending eight hours on a proposal and your win rate is thirty percent, you're burning almost three hours of unbillable time for every win. At some point the economics break.
The numbers I've seen suggest that for a project in the, say, ten to fifty thousand dollar range — which is where a lot of independent consultants operate — you should be spending somewhere between two and five hours on a proposal, total. If you're north of eight hours for a proposal in that range, you're probably over-investing relative to the expected value. But here's the nuance: not all hours are equal. Two hours of focused, client-specific writing beats five hours of template customization where you're just swapping out company names and project titles.
That ratio — two to five hours for a ten-to-fifty-thousand-dollar project — feels about right. But let's talk about the AI dimension, because that's the new variable in all of this. Daniel mentioned that AI tools make it easier than ever to write proposals at scale, but that the best ones come from the heart and avoid the overly templated feel. And I think he's identified the exact risk. AI is very good at producing the musical equivalent of beige wallpaper.
The glockenspiel of corporate approachability.
There it is. And the problem is that buyers have gotten sensitized to this faster than sellers realize. A year or two ago, an AI-written proposal might have passed unnoticed. People can smell it. The sentence structures are too consistent, the transitions are too smooth, the document has this weird frictionless quality that human writing doesn't.
There was a piece in the Harvard Business Review a few months back — they ran an experiment where they sent identically structured proposals to procurement managers, some human-written, some AI-generated with light editing. The human-written ones scored about thirty percent higher on "perceived understanding of our needs," even when the AI versions contained the same factual content. The readers couldn't always articulate why, but they felt the difference.
The uncanny valley of business writing.
That's exactly what it is. And I think the implication is that AI should be used as a research assistant and a structural scaffold, not a writer. Use it to pull together background on the client's industry, to suggest sections you might want to include, to check your pricing against market benchmarks. But the actual words — the sentences that do the persuading — those should be yours.
I'd go further. I think there are specific places in a proposal where the human voice matters most, and specific places where it barely matters at all. The "about us" section? That can be templated. The executive summary and the section where you describe their problem back to them? That's where the deal is won or lost. Spend your human-writing budget there.
The executive summary is disproportionately important. I've talked to people who evaluate proposals for a living, and a surprising number admit they've essentially made their decision by the end of page two. The rest of the document is confirmation. So if you're going to pour your heart into two pages, make it those two.
Which is terrifying and also liberating. Terrifying because you only get two pages to make your case. Liberating because you don't need to polish the entire document to the same level. Let's get concrete, though. Daniel specifically asked about including envisioned achievements and budget parameters. I think those are two things a lot of small business owners are uncomfortable putting in writing.
Let's take them one at a time. Envisioned achievements — I actually think this is the single most underused element in small business proposals. Most proposals describe what the consultant will do: "We will conduct stakeholder interviews, we will analyze the data, we will deliver a report." That's activities. What the client actually wants to know is outcomes. What will be different when you're done? And putting that in writing does two things. One, it shows you've thought hard enough about their situation to make a prediction. Two, it gives them something concrete to measure you against.
It also signals confidence. If you're willing to say "we expect to reduce your customer churn by fifteen to twenty percent within the first quarter," you're staking something. That's scarier than saying "we will implement a churn reduction program," but it's also a hundred times more compelling.
The fear, of course, is that you'll be held to it. What if you don't hit the number? But here's the counterintuitive thing I've observed: clients don't actually expect you to hit the exact number. What they value is that you were willing to name one. It shows skin in the game. And if you fall short but you've been transparent about why, most reasonable clients will still see the engagement as successful.
"Most reasonable clients" being the operative phrase. There are always the ones who'll take your projected achievement and turn it into a contractual club. How do you protect against that?
Frame it as a projection, not a guarantee. "Based on what we've seen in similar engagements, we project a fifteen to twenty percent reduction in churn" — that's a forecast. "We guarantee a fifteen percent reduction" — that's a liability. The first one is smart; the second one is asking for trouble.
Then there's budget parameters. Daniel mentioned that specifically, and I think this is where a lot of people get squeamish. You don't want to scare the client off with a number that's too high, and you don't want to leave money on the table with a number that's too low. So the instinct is to be vague.
Being vague about budget is one of the worst things you can do, for a reason that isn't obvious. When you don't include budget parameters, the client doesn't think "oh, they're being flexible." They think "they're going to surprise me later." And the uncertainty is worse than a high number, because uncertainty feels like risk. A client who knows the project will cost between forty and fifty thousand dollars can make a decision. A client who has no idea what it will cost can't — and will often default to no decision at all.
There's also the qualification angle. If you put a real budget range in the proposal and the client balks, you've just saved yourself weeks of follow-up conversations that were never going to go anywhere. The price is a filter.
It's a filter that works in both directions. I've seen consultants who were chronically undercharging get pushed toward higher rates precisely because they started putting real numbers in proposals and discovered that clients weren't blinking. The budget parameter isn't just for the client's benefit — it's a market signal back to you.
Let's talk structure. We've been dancing around it. If I'm a small business owner and I have two to five hours to produce a proposal that actually wins, what's the architecture? What sections, in what order, at what level of detail?
I've thought about this a lot, and I keep coming back to a structure that's maybe counterintuitive. Most proposals start with an introduction, then background, then methodology, then timeline, then budget. I'd flip it. Start with the problem statement — a crisp, one-paragraph description of what you understand their challenge to be, in their language. Then go straight to the envisioned outcome. What does success look like? Then your approach — not a generic methodology section, but the two or three key decisions you'd make that are different from what someone else would do. Then timeline and budget. Your qualifications go last, or in an appendix.
Qualifications as appendix. That's going to make some people uncomfortable.
We've been trained to lead with credentials because credentials feel safe. But the client doesn't care about your credentials until they believe you understand their problem. Once they believe that, they'll go looking for reasons to trust you — and that's when your experience matters. But if you lead with your resume, you're asking them to trust you before you've demonstrated any understanding. It's backward.
It's the same dynamic as a job interview where the candidate spends the first ten minutes listing their degrees. The interviewer's real question is "can you do this specific thing we need done," and the degrees are only relevant as a partial answer to that question.
The other structural thing I'd emphasize is that shorter is almost always better, but not at the expense of specificity. A five-page proposal that's dense with specifics about the client's situation will beat a twenty-page proposal that reads like it could have been sent to anyone. The goal isn't to be comprehensive. The goal is to be convincing.
There's a quote I think about — I can't remember who said it — "a proposal is not a plan, it's a promise." The plan comes after you win the work. The proposal's job is just to get them to say yes.
That's a useful framing, because it clarifies what you should and shouldn't include. You shouldn't include the detailed project plan, the exhaustive risk matrix, the org chart. You should include enough to make the promise credible and the scope clear.
Let's dig into the specifics piece more, because Daniel flagged it and I think it's where the AI-versus-human tension is sharpest. AI can generate specifics, but they're usually the wrong kind of specifics. They're generic specifics. "We will deliver a twenty percent improvement in operational efficiency." Where did that twenty percent come from? It's a number that sounds specific but isn't anchored to anything.
This is what I call the "specificity uncanny valley." The proposal has numbers, it has bullet points, it has named deliverables — but none of them connect to anything you actually discussed with the client. And that's worse than being vague, because it creates this dissonance where the client thinks, "I don't remember mentioning operational efficiency as a metric. Did they even listen?
The rule for specifics is: they have to be traceable. If you include a number, you should be able to point to where it came from. "You mentioned your current churn rate is around twelve percent, and based on the intervention we're proposing, we'd expect to bring that below eight percent within six months." That's a specific that earns its place.
When you don't have enough information to generate a traceable specific, it's better to describe the process for arriving at one than to invent a number. "In the first phase, we'll establish baseline metrics for X, Y, and Z, and set targets collaboratively." That's honest, and it's also a better sales pitch than a made-up number.
What about the budget section specifically? I want to go deeper on this because I think it's the part of the proposal where small business owners leave the most money on the table. There's a whole psychology to pricing in proposals that most people never learn.
The biggest mistake I see is that people present a single number with no options. "The project will cost forty-two thousand dollars.And the client is left with a binary choice: yes or no. That's a terrible position to put a client in, because "no" is always the safer option.
You're saying always offer options?
Always offer options, but not the way most people do it. The standard approach is good-better-best: a stripped-down option, a recommended option, and a premium option. That works, but what works better is what I've seen called "option-based pricing" — where the options aren't about more or less of the same thing, but about different approaches to solving the problem.
Give me an example.
Say you're proposing a website redesign. Instead of "basic website, better website, premium website," you might offer: option A — refresh the existing site with modern design and improved performance, six weeks, thirty thousand. Option B — rebuild on a new platform with custom features, twelve weeks, fifty-five thousand. Option C — phased approach starting with the highest-impact pages, rolling out over six months, paid in increments. These aren't just different price points — they're different strategies. And the conversation that follows tells you everything about what the client actually values.
That's clever because it reframes the conversation from "how much does this cost" to "what kind of outcome do we want." And it also gives the client a sense of agency. They're not being sold to — they're choosing.
Psychologically, when people choose between options rather than saying yes or no to a single offer, they feel more committed to the choice. It's the same reason restaurants with smaller menus often have happier customers.
Let me throw a wrench into this, though. Everything we've described so far — the discovery, the customized problem statement, the traceable specifics, the multi-option pricing — this sounds like a lot of work. Even with the two-to-five-hour budget we mentioned, I can imagine someone listening to this and thinking, "That's great in theory, but I send out fifteen proposals a month. I can't do this for all of them.
This is where qualification becomes the meta-skill. If you're sending out fifteen proposals a month, the problem isn't your proposal process — it's your qualification process. You're probably spending time on opportunities that were never real.
The time-efficient proposal starts with being ruthless about which proposals you write at all.
A hundred percent. And the best qualification question I've ever heard is deceptively simple: "What would cause you to choose not to move forward with this project?" If the client can't answer that question, or if their answer is vague, they're not a real buyer. They're shopping. A real buyer knows what their internal objections are, and they'll tell you if you ask.
That's a great filter. What other qualification signals do you look for?
Timeline urgency is a big one. If they need to make a decision in two weeks, that's real. If they're "exploring options for sometime next year," that's a tire-kicker. Budget authority is another — have they allocated money for this, or are they hoping to find budget after they see a proposal? The third one, and this is subtle, is whether they've tried to solve this problem before. A client who's already failed once is a much more serious buyer than one who's just now noticing the problem.
The failed-once client also gives you a huge advantage in the proposal, because you can address what went wrong last time. "You mentioned the previous engagement stalled because the team wasn't bought in — here's how we'd handle the change management piece differently." That's the kind of line that wins deals.
It takes thirty seconds to write, because the client handed you the insight. You just have to be listening.
This connects back to something Daniel said in the prompt — about proposals coming from the heart. I don't think that's just a sentiment. I think it's a practical observation about what makes one proposal stand out in a stack of five or ten. The ones that win have a voice. You can tell a human being wrote them, and you can tell that human being actually wants the work.
There's a quality that's hard to name but easy to recognize. It's the difference between a proposal that says "we are qualified to do this work" and one that says "we are excited to do this work." Enthusiasm leaks through. And it's one of the few things AI genuinely cannot fake.
Enthusiasm leaks through. That's worth sitting with. Because I think a lot of small business owners, especially the ones who've been doing this a while, get a little jaded. Every proposal starts to feel like a chore. And the client can tell.
Which suggests that one of the best things you can do for your win rate is to only pursue work you actually want. That sounds obvious, but it's surprisingly easy to drift into taking whatever comes along, especially when things are slow. And then you're writing proposals for projects you're half-hearted about, and the proposals read that way, and your win rate drops, and things get slower, and it's a spiral.
The proposal version of "don't go grocery shopping when you're hungry." Don't write proposals when you're desperate. The desperation shows.
On the flip side, when you're excited about a project, your proposal almost writes itself. The specifics come naturally because you've been thinking about the problem anyway. The envisioned achievements are vivid because you can actually picture the outcome. The whole document has momentum.
Let's talk about the AI tools more directly, because I think we've been dancing around them and Daniel specifically asked. There's a whole ecosystem now — proposal generators, RFP auto-responders, tools that claim to write a winning proposal in ten minutes. What's actually useful and what's snake oil?
The landscape has matured a lot. You've got tools like Proposify and PandaDoc that are essentially template and workflow platforms — they help with formatting, e-signatures, tracking when a client opens the document. Those are useful and I don't think anyone should be building proposals in Microsoft Word from scratch anymore. Then you've got the AI writing layer — tools like Jasper, Claude, ChatGPT — that can generate proposal text. Those are useful for drafting and for getting past the blank page, but the output needs heavy editing.
The blank page is the hardest part for a lot of people. I can see the value of having the AI dump out a rough draft that you then reshape.
That's exactly the right use case. Use AI to get to a sixty percent draft in twenty minutes, then spend your remaining time on the forty percent that matters — the problem statement, the executive summary, the specifics, the pricing logic. That's a much better allocation than spending three hours on formatting and boilerplate and one hour on the parts the client actually reads.
The other thing AI is good at is the research piece you mentioned earlier. Feeding it the client's website, their annual report, their recent press releases, and having it pull out relevant details you might have missed. "Did you know they just expanded into the European market?" — that kind of thing. It's a research assistant that works while you sleep.
That's the thing — AI is best used asymmetrically. Don't use it for what the client sees. Use it for what the client doesn't see. The background research, the competitive analysis, the rough drafts that you then rewrite. The client experiences the human touch; you benefit from the machine efficiency behind the scenes.
The invisibility of good AI use.
Like a film score. If you notice it, it's failing.
Okay, I want to pull on a thread we've been circling. The idea that a proposal is a promise, not a plan. If that's true, then the most important thing in a proposal — maybe the only thing that really matters — is that the client believes you can deliver on the promise. Everything else is scaffolding. So how do you build belief?
Belief comes from three things, I think. The first is demonstrated understanding — the client thinking "they get it." The second is relevant evidence — "they've done this before, for someone like us." And the third is something that doesn't get talked about enough: intellectual honesty. Admitting what you don't know, acknowledging risks, being straight about trade-offs. When you do that, the things you do claim to be confident about become much more credible.
The "here's what could go wrong" section. That's controversial. A lot of people would say you never bring up risks in a proposal.
Those people are leaving credibility on the table. Every project has risks. The client knows this. When you name them, you demonstrate that you've thought further ahead than your competitors. When you don't name them, the client fills in the blanks themselves — and their imagined risks are usually worse than the real ones.
It's the same principle as acknowledging a weakness in a job interview. When you say "here's an area where I'm still developing," the interviewer trusts your strengths more.
A good proposal might include a short section — and I do mean short, three or four bullet points — called "what we'll be watching for" or "key assumptions." You're not saying the project will fail. You're saying "here are the conditions that need to hold for this to work, and here's how we'll handle it if they don't.
That also protects you later. If one of those assumptions breaks, you've already established that it was a known variable, not a surprise failure.
And that connects back to the envisioned achievements. If you framed your projections around specific assumptions, and one of those assumptions changes, the conversation about revised targets is much easier. "We projected a twenty percent improvement assuming the current team stayed in place. With the departure of the engineering lead, let's revisit that.
Let's get even more tactical. What are the small things — the micro-decisions in a proposal — that have an outsized impact on how it's received? I'm thinking about the things that operate below the level of conscious evaluation.
The first thing is the subject line of the email, if you're sending it electronically. Most people write "Proposal for [Client Name]" or "Project Proposal." That's a wasted opportunity. The subject line should include the most compelling specific from the proposal. "Website redesign proposal: projected forty percent faster load times." That's a subject line that gets opened.
I've never thought about the subject line as part of the proposal. But you're right — if they don't open it, nothing else matters.
The second thing is the first sentence. Most proposals start with "Thank you for the opportunity to submit this proposal.Everyone writes that. It's word noise. Start with something they told you. "When we spoke last Tuesday, you mentioned that your current provider has missed three consecutive deadlines." That's a first sentence that makes someone keep reading.
The "thank you for the opportunity" sentence is the proposal equivalent of "I hope this email finds you well." It's polite filler that signals nothing except that you're following a template.
The third thing is formatting that signals care. I'm not talking about fancy design — I'm talking about matching the client's terminology. If they call it a "learning management system," don't call it a "training platform." If they say "members" not "users," use "members." These tiny alignments create a sense of fit that's almost subliminal.
It's basic rapport-building, but in writing.
The fourth thing is what I'd call "permission to skip." A good proposal should have a clear structure where someone can read the executive summary and the pricing and get eighty percent of the value. If you force them to read all fifteen pages to understand what you're offering, you've already lost a lot of readers.
The proposal as a newspaper article, not a mystery novel. Don't bury the lede.
And the fifth thing — and this is the one that surprises people — is the follow-up. Most proposals are sent and then the consultant waits. The ones that win are often followed up within forty-eight hours with a genuine question, not a "just checking in." Something like "I was thinking more about the integration challenge you mentioned, and I wanted to share an additional thought." It shows the proposal wasn't a transaction — it was the start of a conversation.
The proposal as conversation opener, not closing argument. That reframes the whole thing. You're not trying to deliver a document so perfect that it answers every possible question and eliminates every objection. You're trying to deliver a document that makes them want to talk to you more.
That's actually a much more achievable goal. It takes the pressure off. A proposal doesn't need to be perfect. It needs to be interesting.
Which brings us back to the heart thing. An interesting proposal is one where a human being is visibly thinking. You can see the gears turning. You can feel the curiosity. That's what AI can't replicate — not because AI can't write thoughtful sentences, but because the thoughtfulness has to be about this specific client and this specific problem, and the AI wasn't in the room.
The AI wasn't in the room. That's the whole thing right there. The most efficient proposal process in the world is one where the discovery conversation does most of the work, and the proposal is essentially a written summary of what you already figured out together. The client reads it and thinks, "Yes, that's exactly what we discussed." And that feeling of alignment is worth more than any amount of polished prose.
If I'm synthesizing all of this — and I think we should, because we've covered a lot of ground — the time-efficient proposal isn't about writing faster. It's about writing less of the wrong things and more of the right things. It's about doing the thinking before you touch the keyboard. It's about letting AI handle the invisible work and keeping the visible work human. And it's about qualifying ruthlessly so you're only writing proposals for work you actually want and can actually win.
I'd add one more synthesis point: the best proposals are specific in the places that matter and vague in the places that don't. Specific about the client's problem, specific about the envisioned outcome, specific about the budget. Vague about the exact week-by-week timeline, vague about the detailed methodology. Because the specifics build trust, and the vagueness preserves the flexibility you'll need once the work actually starts.
The budget specificity deserves one more mention, because I think it's the hardest one for people. Putting a real number in writing feels vulnerable. But it's also the clearest signal you can send that you're a professional who knows what their work is worth. The vaguer you are about money, the more the client suspects they're about to be taken for a ride.
There's an old sales adage: "the pain of price is forgotten long before the pain of poor quality." Clients who choose the cheapest option are often the most dissatisfied, and they're also the most likely to blame the consultant for the dissatisfaction, even though they chose the scope. Being clear and confident about pricing isn't just good business — it's protective.
I want to circle back to something you said earlier about the executive summary being where decisions get made. If someone listening takes only one thing from this conversation, it should probably be that. That's your canvas. Everything else is appendix.
Those two pages should answer four questions, in order. One: what problem are we solving, and why does it matter? Two: what will be different when we're done? Three: why are we the right people to do this? Four: what's this going to cost, roughly? If you can answer those four questions in two pages, in language that sounds like you actually talked to the client, you've done eighty percent of the work.
The other twenty percent is not screwing up the rest of the document. No typos, no inconsistent formatting, no copy-paste artifacts from the last proposal you sent.
The copy-paste artifacts are the tell. I've seen proposals where the client's name is wrong in the footer.
Or the classic: "We're excited to work with [COMPANY NAME]." The bracket placeholders that survived the final edit. That's the proposal equivalent of showing up to a wedding in shorts.
The thing is, these are exactly the kinds of errors that AI can help catch. Run your final draft through an AI proofreader. Have it flag anything that looks templated or generic. Use the machine to catch the machine-like errors.
We've come full circle. AI as the quality-control layer, not the content layer. I like that framing.
It's the right division of labor. Humans are good at insight and connection. Machines are good at consistency and completeness. A great proposal process uses both.
Before we wrap, I want to touch on one more thing Daniel mentioned — the idea that small business owners tend to avoid investing too much time in any one proposal, which probably decreases their win rate. I think he's right about the diagnosis, but I want to complicate the prescription. The answer isn't necessarily to spend more time on every proposal. It's to spend more time on fewer proposals.
If you're currently spending one hour each on ten proposals and winning two of them, you might be better off spending three hours each on five proposals and winning three of them. Same total time investment, higher revenue, and you're only doing five proposals instead of ten.
The math is compelling, but it requires the discipline to say no to the other five opportunities. And that's emotionally hard, especially when the pipeline feels light.
But the alternative is the proposal treadmill — constantly writing, rarely winning, never having enough time to make any single proposal great. The treadmill is the trap. And the way out is to get comfortable with the idea that some opportunities aren't worth pursuing, even if they're right in front of you.
The proposal as filter, not just as sales document. It filters opportunities in, but it should also filter them out. If you can't write a compelling proposal for a project in under three hours, that might be a sign that the project isn't a good fit.
Or that you haven't done enough discovery. Either way, it's valuable information. The proposal process should tell you something, not just the client.
Alright, I think we've covered the ground. Discovery first, write less but write better, lead with the problem and the outcome, put budget parameters in writing, offer options not a single number, use AI for the invisible work, and be ruthless about qualification. That's a blueprint.
Remember the two pages. If you're spending more than two hours on anything beyond the executive summary and pricing, ask yourself whether that section is actually going to move the decision.
The proposal as a promise, not a plan. Short, specific, human.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: The ancient Greek philosopher Anaxagoras theorized that the Nile River was fed by meltwater from subterranean ice deposits beneath the Ethiopian highlands — a theory that was widely accepted for centuries before anyone had actually mapped the river's true sources.
Subterranean ice deposits in Ethiopia.
You know, if Anaxagoras had been writing proposals, he would've led with the ice thing. Very specific, very confident, completely wrong — but memorable.
That's the last lesson, really. Don't be completely wrong. But do be memorable. This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. You can find us at myweirdprompts.com or wherever you get your podcasts. We'll be back with another one soon.
