Let's pretend my novel is a sweater that you knitted.
This is a little strange, I know, but just bear with me for a bit. You knitted the sweater, so you're very proud of it. In your eyes, it is beautiful. You'll probably never wear it because it's a little lopsided and it has so many holes it could be the poster child (well, poster sweater) for naphthalene. That's mothballs, by the way.
This is what my novel is like right now. It looks like it could make sense, if you tilt your head and squint your eyes a little bit. It's almost there. But not quite.
Plus it has more plot holes than...well...I'm not really sure that I can finish this sentence. But I can tell you that my novel has a lot of plot holes at the moment.
Actually, it looks a little bit like Swiss cheese. I'd better get working.
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