Behold, my good readers, for this is an CAUTIONARY POSTE OF DOOM!
My Twitter followers may have seen a few incoherent tweets about this, but I had a (wholly self-imposed) novel deadline a little while ago — September 30. Due to procrastination, sickness, and a slew of avoidable and semi-avoidable disasters, including deleting about 30,000 words and completely re-doing the outline on August 31, I finished the first draft — and I do mean the first draft — on September 23. It was still riddled with plot holes, unfilled INSERTNAMEOFPERSONHERE brackets, half-finished descriptions ('WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT THE THING HERE'), and the same person got killed twice in slightly different fashions (more on him later).
That left me with a grand total of, if I was being generous, seven days to finish everything needed to present my agent with a finished draft.
"But Premee!" I hear you yelping. "That's unreasonable! Were your brain parasites acting up? Why didn't you ask for an extension?"