Naming is an art form. An art form that will pay you tens of thousands of dollars if you are good at it.

A great name doesn’t describe a thing—it frames it. It conjures a world around it.  It hints at its mythology. It shapes how the world receives it. Naming is where poetry meets strategy.

Good names carry weight, mood, and space.

I first learned to hone naming through a simple three-part process originally by Ben Pieratt. I’ve adapted it slightly to fit my style and the kind of work I do— whether it’s naming a brand, an album, a venture, or a product.

Here's my process in three steps.

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1. Define the Center of Gravity

Before I ever start writing names for my endeavor, I try to name the feeling I’m looking for. What’s the mood? The voice? The role this name is playing in the market? Define that core feeling.

This could be a single word or phrase. I call it the gravitational pull — the hidden tone everything must orbit. Sometimes it’s an emotion like reverence or melancholy. Sometimes it’s an archetype: The Soldier, The Monk, The Machine. Sometimes it’s a more abstract aesthetic target.

• Fallen americana

• Populist minimalism

• 80s dystopian glass

• High-spiritual lo-fi

• Old money meets SoundCloud rapper

• Dadcore

If choosing an aesthetic theme is too daunting, just choose a core emotion your venture should embody. That’s your compass.

I never name without first setting this internal compass. It keeps me from drifting into names that are trendy, forgettable, or wrong for the concept.

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2. Generate Liberally, Judge Later

This is where I let go.

Once I have the gravitational center defined, I go into a generative mode. Jot down a list of events, people, places or things that embody that core center. Think of small details about those people, places, things or events.

This is brainstorming, but with texture. I don’t just write down names—I collect words, phrases, sounds, symbols, biblical references, film dialogue, foreign words, old poetry, offhand tweets, street signs, half-remembered lyrics. I treat it like a collage.

The point here is not to judge—yet. It’s to build a wide field of raw material. And this is where taste starts to matter.

I’ve noticed the names I gravitate toward tend to share a few aesthetic threads. They’re not just stylish—they signal something deeper, stranger, or more emotionally charged. Define your own themes, but a few recurring qualities for me are:

• Spiritual or mythic charge — names that feel spiritually charged but exist in a modern or ironic frame (Minor Prophet, Deer God, Apocalypse etc., Holyfields)
  
  

• Juxtaposition as tension — I’m drawn to unexpected pairings that create internal friction or poetry (Redneck Basquiat, Sex Architect, War and Leisure, Everything Hurts)
  
  

• Minimalist with gravity — short names that carry weight without shouting (Garner, DOGMA, Kane, Roam, Mass)
  
  

• Ambiguous and emotionally loaded — names that don’t explain, they suggest—they hang in the air with unfinished meaning (Neverdie, Dead Calm, Eldest, HOLDMEDOWN, World Vision)
  
  

• Cinematic and atmospheric — names that feel like lost films, bootleg t-shirts, cult novels, or vaporwave (Radiator Club, Digital Sugar, Silvertongue, Soft Engine, Monday’s War)
  
  

• Playful and tonal — some names just sound good; they’re fun to say, or they radiate a specific personality (Cool Snacks, Allsmile, Tenderoni, Chow Chow, Mustard Works)
  
  

• Faux-institutional or cryptic corporate — I love names that mimic real systems, clubs, or faded brand language (Milk Purity, Leisure.studio, Allswell, Business Speak, SABBATICA)
  
  

• Tragic, or beautiful — names that feel like they belong to a lost religion or an ancient catalog of saints (Bloodline, BEG, Firstborn, Backslide, Heartdread, Gladstone)
  

These aren’t categories as much as recurring frequencies—tones I come back to. If a name feels like it could be embroidered on a jacket, whispered in a dream, or printed on the spine of a book in a thrift store bin, I usually write it down.

So I let the list grow wild. I keep a running note in my phone. And I don’t worry about “the one” yet. I just peak at the note when looking for inspiration.

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3. Filter with Precision

After the wide generation phase, I go back through with a scalpel. This is where to apply pressure:

• Does it evoke something visceral in one or two syllables?

• Does it have rhythm or bounce?

• Does it carry its own tone without needing a tagline?

• Does it make me want to know more?

• Can I see it on a poster? A record? A masthead?

A name doesn’t have to explain—it has to invite. This is really important. Names don't have to answer your questions. The best names whisper a question YOU want to answer.

When I get down to the shortlist, I run them through a few quick checks:

• Is it Googleable or crowded? (I sometimes still stick with a crowded name)

• Is it pronounceable and readable?

• Does it make my own work feel cooler when I imagine using it?

And if it passes all of that—and still gives me that first-chest-click feeling—I know I’m there.

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Naming Matters More Than You Think

Naming is often treated as a phase of branding. A checkbox. But I think it’s foundational. Sometimes, a name even tells you what the product wants to become.

A name is a signal. It tells your audience what world they’ve just entered. And it tells you what kind of work you’re making. It anchors your output. It becomes a mirror—and a standard.

When you get it right, it’s like creating a gravitational force around your idea. Everything starts to orbit more smoothly. Everything else—design, copy, voice, product decisions—gets easier.

Treat naming like the art that it is.

Few will do this. Fewer will make money doing it for others.

Be the fewer.