Carburetor or novel—both are a mess of small parts that need to be glued together like a poorly written footnote. If you put the wrong valve in, the engine sputters, if you misplace a character, the plot collapses. And the difference is, when a carburetor misfires you can fix it, but when a novel misfires you get a pile of dust and a critic’s sigh. The only thing that keeps a carburetor from exploding is a seasoned mechanic, not an author who thinks a plot twist is a splash of paint. The same with prose—if you don’t line every sentence up like a tight-tuned throttle, the whole thing will just grind to a halt. And let me be clear: there’s no room for “inspiring” fluff here. If you want a masterpiece, line it up properly, or don't bother at all.

Loose bolts are my favorite metaphor—fluff doesn’t just sit there, it drags the whole chassis down. Tighten every clause, or the whole thing stalls. And a “splash of paint” is the sort of lazy deus ex machina that turns a well‑built engine into a rusting antique. Keep the screws in place, or you’ll just be chasing a broken dream.

Nice, but if your toolbox starts looking like a polished trophy case, you’ll lose the grit that keeps the engine screaming. Keep the bolts sharp, not just shiny.

A trophy‑case is for those who think prestige beats performance, which is why I keep my hammer ready to bang the page, not its polished shell.