There's something catastrophically terrifying about the blankness that comes before. For an artist, it's the empty canvas; for the writer, a blank page; for a musician trying to create an original song, it's the first note.
But in all endeavors there must be a first.
I've always felt, though, that while most people would never dare to create something original with their own two hands, that those who do almost seem too eager to do so. Such an assertion may seem counter-productive at a cursory glance; after all, we should be encouraging people to venture into the creative unknown, and the idea that one can be too eager might sound needlessly dissuasive.
But to understand what I mean, all you need to do is look at this painting by Edmund Leighton:
What's significant about this painting by Edmund Leighton is that this was his first one. Of course, when his biographies and I mention that this painting, A Flaw in the Title, is his first, what we really mean is that this was his first “published” painting; his debut. He spent many years at the Royal Academy of Art, and no doubt practiced his craft for thousands of hours before debuting this painting.
Someone just starting out might see that this was Edmund's first painting, and think to themselves, "If he's a newbie and he can already paint like that, what chance do I have?"
(And of course, he would go on to create much greater artworks than this, such as his most famous, The Accolade, and some of his more photorealistic symbolic pieces, such as Maternity.)
New writers might read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and be absolutely harrowed that someone's first book could be so magnificent. It leads one to wondering what chance they have when someone else's debut work puts many industry professionals to shame.
But this is all just survivorship bias.
In World War II, a statistician name Abraham Wald was tasked with assisting engineers in figuring out how to increase the likelihood of aircraft returning successfully. At the time, only about 1 in 10 planes actually came back alive. It was noted by Wald's team that the aircraft that returned were damaged in specific areas--around the back of the plane, the underside of the plane, and some parts of the wings. Due to the weight limitations, substantive armor could only be reinforced around some parts of the plane, or else it would be too heavy to fly; and so, they first began by reinforcing all the spots where the returning planes showed damage.
But this did nothing. Even after reinforcing large segments of the plane, only about 1 in 10 returned. It was then that Wald suggested, "Put armor everywhere that doesn't have bulletholes." And so they started only reinforcing the parts of the planes that seemed to never get hit--the cockpit, the engines, and vital parts of the wings. And suddenly, with this change, more planes started returning alive.
The reason why all the surviving planes were damaged on the back of the plane and not the cockpits was because the ones that were shot in the cockpits crashed and never returned.
When we see something like Harry Potter or Edmund Leighton's early paintings, we only see the final product, not the insane amount of time and effort that went into creating it. We only see the very tip of the iceberg.