I'm Afraid of Writing

I logged onto Writing.com couples of months ago for the first time. I found it an ideal community in which I could level up my writing skills by reading and posting my own work. However, several months later, this website still remains an uncharted world to me. It is a world, wonderful, I know, that I hardly have courage to step into, for I am a person who is scared of writing.
I told every of my pen pal that I adore writing emails to them. Sorry, I lied. I really like reading their emails, checking the photos attached or watching a clip of video of their daily life. But getting their greetings also terrifies me. When I sit in front of the computer monitor, my mind is as blank as the Word sheet. Usually, I have to try every means to browse through my memory in hope of getting one or two interesting topic to talk about and at last end up with nothing, as if my whole life is as dull as a corpse’s. Even if sometimes I have so many things stuffed in my mind, it isn’t a bless but still a curse because I just don’t know where and how to start.
This phenomenon is not only for my email-writing, but nearly for my every trial to ‘nail’ down something. I can not even start an article because there seems to be tens of thousands of leads knotted, woven disorderly so that it is impossible for me the catch the heads and the tails. Sometimes I get started successfully with great luck, all the leads and my inspirations will end right after a few ugly sentences. And then, I have no idea how and when I can summon those gone ideas and, more importantly, my lost confidence.
Apart from these subconscious or unknown reasons, I have found a real and obvious one that will explain some of my symptoms. I am afraid of reading my own articles.
I admit that the sense of absolute victory and ecstasy I get from the completion of one article is why I haven’t given up writing. Nevertheless, my joy and appreciation will only last for a few minutes, during which I usually marvel at the length of the article or read it aloud and enjoy the echo of every word. Then, my cowardice will take over— I will save the file in one of my documents, and if it is hand written, I will fold the paper and enclose it in one of my notebooks and never, never read it again. I know from the first place that what I wrote is far from perfect and it needs rounds of proof reading. But I am not brave enough to witness the gradual destruction of my perfect feeling towards it and I cannot accept the truth that those initial sparks of thoughts and springs of creativity of which once I was so proud will turn out to be series of plain and emotionless sentences. I’d rather die in beautiful dreams, other than live in cruel reality.
I cannot tell since when my scare began to fade away or since when I started to get stronger, I decide to pick up writing, to stick with it, to cultivate it as a hobby and to fix it into my style of living. I am tired of PC games and now I find Word the most interesting computer program; I am tired of reading novels— living in other’s world, playing a unlovely part, chasing a wrong girl and at last choosing an imperfect ending. I want to change, want to control, want to get attention from others, want to leave something to this world other than 8- hour-a-day work and finally an urn of ashes.
Writing, I am no more afraid of you!