The Audacity to Begin
Every story starts the same way: with a first sentence.
But what exactly is a first sentence?
Philip Pullman, in Daemon Voices, offers a powerful metaphor: the first sentence is a point in phase space—that multidimensional space where every possible parameter of a system is represented. In physics, a one-dimensional system is called a phase line; two dimensions make a phase plane. In quantum mechanics, phase space gives position and momentum equal weight, allowing a fuller, richer understanding of a system's behavior.
The first sentence of a story exists the same way: not as a beginning and an end, but as a point surrounded by limitless possibilities. Every degree of freedom—character, tone, setting, conflict, promise—is alive in that single moment. Every path is open. Every story waits.
And that’s terrifying.
Before we can even begin to navigate the overwhelming vastness of the creative phase space, we first have to become available—we have to leave fear behind.
Artists, in particular, are called to overcome the fears of ordinary men.
To borrow a line from David Eddings' Magician’s Gambit: “Ordinary men live in fear all the time. Didn’t you know that? We’re afraid of the weather. We’re afraid of powerful men. We’re afraid of the night and the monsters that live in the dark. We’re afraid of growing old and of dying. Sometimes, we’re even afraid of living...”
Pushing through fear, we must embrace the bad weather, speak back to power, and even welcome a few monsters from the dark corners of our imagination. We have to come to grips with our mortality—and find the audacity to live fully, without guarantees.
We have to overcome what Pullman calls “paralyzing self-consciousness”—that terrible inner voice whispering you can't—and create anyway. Loudly. Shamelessly. Without a net.
There’s always a secret hope that an audience will catch you mid-leap. (I had that hope once, and landed squarely on my head.)
But the leap must happen either way.
Pullman recalls a quote from Vincent Van Gogh about the fear many painters feel before the blank canvas: "Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of 'you can't' once and for all."
We writers need to do the same.
Break the spell.
Strike fear into the heart of the blank page with the sheer audacity to begin.
Pullman also humbly describes himself as living at the “vulgar end” of literature—the fluff under the bed of the great and sophisticated works. Reading 'Daemon Voices', I find that idea staggering in its honesty and humility.
If I can aspire to be a dust bunny somewhere in the back of the literary closet, brushing shoulders with that beautiful fluff—I’ll be thrilled.
But what exactly is a first sentence?
Philip Pullman, in Daemon Voices, offers a powerful metaphor: the first sentence is a point in phase space—that multidimensional space where every possible parameter of a system is represented. In physics, a one-dimensional system is called a phase line; two dimensions make a phase plane. In quantum mechanics, phase space gives position and momentum equal weight, allowing a fuller, richer understanding of a system's behavior.
The first sentence of a story exists the same way: not as a beginning and an end, but as a point surrounded by limitless possibilities. Every degree of freedom—character, tone, setting, conflict, promise—is alive in that single moment. Every path is open. Every story waits.
And that’s terrifying.
Before we can even begin to navigate the overwhelming vastness of the creative phase space, we first have to become available—we have to leave fear behind.
Artists, in particular, are called to overcome the fears of ordinary men.
To borrow a line from David Eddings' Magician’s Gambit: “Ordinary men live in fear all the time. Didn’t you know that? We’re afraid of the weather. We’re afraid of powerful men. We’re afraid of the night and the monsters that live in the dark. We’re afraid of growing old and of dying. Sometimes, we’re even afraid of living...”
Pushing through fear, we must embrace the bad weather, speak back to power, and even welcome a few monsters from the dark corners of our imagination. We have to come to grips with our mortality—and find the audacity to live fully, without guarantees.
We have to overcome what Pullman calls “paralyzing self-consciousness”—that terrible inner voice whispering you can't—and create anyway. Loudly. Shamelessly. Without a net.
There’s always a secret hope that an audience will catch you mid-leap. (I had that hope once, and landed squarely on my head.)
But the leap must happen either way.
Pullman recalls a quote from Vincent Van Gogh about the fear many painters feel before the blank canvas: "Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of 'you can't' once and for all."
We writers need to do the same.
Break the spell.
Strike fear into the heart of the blank page with the sheer audacity to begin.
Pullman also humbly describes himself as living at the “vulgar end” of literature—the fluff under the bed of the great and sophisticated works. Reading 'Daemon Voices', I find that idea staggering in its honesty and humility.
If I can aspire to be a dust bunny somewhere in the back of the literary closet, brushing shoulders with that beautiful fluff—I’ll be thrilled.
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