From the altogether fantastic new compendium The Art of Neil Gaiman:
People sometimes ask why I wear shades. I avoid answering — say something about having light-sensitive eyes. You know the kind of thing.
What I don’t say is this:
What the people who don’t wear shades don’t know is that some of us wear shades because they’re all that stop us being eye-naked — forced to gaze, unprotected, at the wet and bleeding face of reality as it squirms and pulses and writhes like a razor slicing a child’s eyeball or the sight of something dead, twitching, just once before collapsing… It’s all that stands between me and the pit.
Three pieces of moulded plastic, two lenses, and a couple of screws.
FINALLY SOMEONE ARTICULATES IT
This is all you have to do. Sit down once a day to the novel and start working without internal criticism, without debilitating expectations, without the need to look at your words as if they were already printed and bound.
The beginning is only a draft. Drafts are imperfect by definition.