We write, hiding behind our words, believing there is a protective wall between us and our readers. Instead, we find that our very words betray us. True writers bare their souls, whether they want to or not. It seeps out in dialogue and creeps around the edges of themes and motifs, and we discover that what we most want to hide is staring back at us from the pages, interwoven into characters we created as a barrier. It takes more courage to publish a story than it does to stand on a stage; we have no proscenium to protect us.