You breath, everyone around you writes dutifully in their notebooks. You sit with a blank page in front of you and a story in your mind, they are at war. If you spill your words onto the paper then they can see, they can criticize and steal. Your story, your own thoughts, are subjected to the outside world. Your characters seen differently, your words mistaken, even your message falsely translated. Your story can't be harmed, it mustn't be harmed.
You pick up your pencil and write a name, a phrase, a title possibility. You glance around to make sure no one can see, it's only yours right now. You continue; dialogue is produced, paragraphs are made, and characters develop. People notice your hand moving and glance at your story. No, it's not ready for eyes other than your own. More people come to see; they pull at the plot, they chop at your characters, and they try to make it their own.
You finish the last sentence, your story is complete. But it isn't your story, at least it's not the story you started with. People have pushed and pulled it into something it's not, it is no longer yours. You place the tattered copy on the shelf for all to read and walk away. Your story is no longer yours, it doesn't need you anymore. It is no longer yours to tell.
