Prolonging the Inevitable

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I havent written anything since I posted that letter to myself a few months ago. I have tried to motivate myself to do so, but my inner-Iago demands to know why I should even bother trying... I relent to his wishes. His criticism merely "You're not that good at writing anyway".

I read the "Writers" Magazine, and in it I found over-whelming amounts of information. Stories from people who are writing, the lenghs they went to to pursue their only passion in life. I do not share their experiences. At all.
To be honest, I didnt really think of writing anything until I turned 16. My imagineation took over and the world was a new place, full of inspiration and interesting things I personally believed I was the first to experience ever.

That was never the case though. In retrospect, it was foolish to make such assumptions. But I was very lost as a child; I dont use it as an excuse, but when most children wanted to be a Fireman, a Vet or even a Shop assistant - I didnt have a clue what I wanted to be. I couldnt see clearly enough in the future to know what I would be able to do.
I dont think I still do.

All I do know for sure is that since I stopped writing, my dreams have been going insane. And I mean INSANE (im a cat and people are selling my belongings). Since I have put the proverbial pen down for my aspiration, my mind had managed to imagine - in vivid detail - scenarios' that play out to a backdrop of creation.
But, alas, I am quick to note them as "Good Ideas" and then sweep them under the imaginary rug that Iago is holding up for me.

I should not have read that magazine (I protest) - some of the greatest writers in history started with just a good story. They didnt need creative english classes or amazingly broad knowledge of the english dictionary - they just needed a good story and the imagination to see it through.

I feel so lost - creatively speaking - yet over-whelmed with my surroundings that I cant fathom where my feet should fall first.

Help.