Writing is such sweet sorrow

Pen in hand, I feel like more than just a writer, more than merely an author. I feel like a creator, an architect piecing together my stories. I sense the power to form whatever I desire; to usher an entire world into being with a simple penstroke. True, they exist only in my imagination, but is that not real enough? They are more than a straightforward fictional story, they are my dreams, conjoured up in ink and paper. Accompanying this feeling of elation, however, is a feeling of quaint responsibility. In my hand lies the ability to create a story-for better or for worse. I have read many good stories, but I have also read one or two too many bad stories to go along with them. I fear that I could write a horrible story just as easily ( if not more easily) as I could write a bad one. Granted, I could realize how abysmal my tale is and turn it into a crumpled ball in the bottom a trash can, but I would always know about it wouldn't I? The story would eat at me for as long as I write- it has happened before. I still remember a terribly written story I came up with in seventh grade about a cat named Fluffy and a dog named Rex. YIKES! I get cold chills just writing about it now. Because of this delicate situation, my writing progresses extremely slowly- if at all. I will come up with a great idea and creep slowly through the text itself-perhaps finishing it, most likely not- and either way being disappointed with the end result. Maybe that is the essance of writing itself: stories are finished but never completed, and the author just has to live with it.