When a sculptor sets out to sculpt something, the material sits in front of them. An inert hunk of clay, stone, or bronze that has already pulled from the earth. The starting point is a given, it already exists, they have something to work with. To respond to.
But writers have to make their own clay. That’s what a first draft is; the malformed, misshapen, big hunk of clay. It’s not until any writer has toiled through hacking out a beginning, middle, and end from the pit in their mind, that they can sit it on the table in front of them and begin to respond to it – to slowly chip away, or push and pull it with their hands, to make it into something that they themselves will be proud of, and perhaps, will touch someone else one day.
When you know that all you have to do is get the big chunk of clay on to a page, first drafts become easier. The point of a first draft isn’t perfection, it’s about existence.