futility abounds

No matter how many magazines, books, and articles I read about the art of written expression, I grow increasingly discouraged to manifest my thoughts onto paper. I would rather bounce delineated thoughts, inane ideas, and prosaic concepts within the splintered boundaries of my skull than defile a blank white page with my scribbling. My fear of social derision and public mockery halts these troubling ambitions to become a writer as well. Even If I muster up the courage to write, I believe my writings will resemble a vomit of elementary words, chaotically spat on paper, devoid of significance, meager in substance, incomprehensible to the outside reader. I’m dauntingly confused, distraught. I need to satiate this proclivity to write, but remain lost on where to begin on this undying, unnerving journey.