… is like juggling ten things in the air at once, only, they’re not real things. They’re placeholders. And as you juggle them, you have to look around and find things to replace the objects you are throwing around, things that feel better. But as you do this, you realize that the new objects don’t feel right either, so you have to replace those, too.
Each time you replace the objects in your hand, you think, “Awesome! That’s the last time I’ll have to replace that thing!” Of course it’s not, but it feels good to think it. And all the while, as you keep replacing those objects, you need to keep everything moving through the air smoothly. And random people walk by and throw shoes and jars of peanut butter and pencils at you. And a midget rides by on a Saint Bernard, shouting “Long Live El Heffe!” And scantily clad women dance in the background. And monkeys. Lots of monkeys.
That’s pretty much it. That’s what writing a novel is all about.