They say the first draft is just you telling yourself the story. If that’s true, then my first draft is me mumbling nonsense, losing my train of thought, and occasionally wandering off to make a snack.

I sit before the glowing screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to create something brilliant. The cursor blinks expectantly. I take a deep breath and type:

“Chapter One.”

I stare at it. It stares back. A powerful opening, truly. Bold. Mysterious. But perhaps… it needs something more? A gripping first sentence? Yes, of course. I must craft the perfect one.

I type, delete, type again. “It was a dark and stormy night.” No, too cliché. “The wind howled through the trees, carrying whispers of the past.” No, too dramatic. “Bob woke up and immediately regretted it.” Relatable, but maybe not the tone I was going for.

The blinking cursor mocks me. I tell myself that perfection is impossible, that I should just write anything. But what if that anything is terrible? What if my characters are dull? What if my plot makes no sense? What if I accidentally invent a side character that is so much more interesting than my main character and suddenly the whole book is about Steve, the surprisingly charismatic gas station clerk?

I panic. I close my laptop. I open it again, feeling guilty. I type a few words, reread them, and delete everything except “Chapter One.” I sigh deeply, as all great writers must.

Then I remember: a first draft is supposed to be bad. It is not the book, but the rough, chaotic, messy beginning of the book. A sculptor does not start with a masterpiece. They start with a lump of clay. And right now, my novel is just that—a formless blob of ideas, waiting to be shaped.

I take another deep breath. I reopen the document. I type:

“Bob woke up and immediately regretted it.”

Yes. That will do.

For now.