The pen sits in front of me, calling my name, but I resist its call. The stories inside are just too powerful. They are mine, and I don’t want to share. They just don’t flow to my fingers the same as they are in my head, allowing the words to betray their original intent. I can get the words on the page, but those reading them will never understand. Everything I write is too simple or too complex, or too silly, or too stupid. I don’t want to expose myself to criticism. I can never finish this. I suck.