Ay, lady, it was my word.

I have an idea of what I want to write here but I cannot make it connect up. I had some thought of being, like, cute – and writing a list of questions, the answers to which would all be, “Ay, lady, it was my word.”
But that went nowhere fast.
I don’t have a list of times that my word kept me honest or involved in something. My word is pretty solid but it isn’t rigid. I don’t hold it up as some shining example so I can’t think of any time wherein it was particularly hard to keep it.
I was after a more expansive sense of my word – maybe my words – and how it was my leaning into my writing that did something or other. But there is no magic there. There isn’t a good story about how my writing saved me. It did. It does. But it does it everyday so it’s not terribly dramatic.
It would be like a story in which the heroine was saved by breathing every day – of course she was – as we all are – but it’s not a particularly unusual tale.
Every day she breathed air, ate food, drank water and she wrote and so she was saved.
The end.

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