Personally, I like a nice, solid, well designed skeleton, perfectly articulated, every bone accounted for, each joint working properly, adequate space for all the organs, tall, big boned, and naked.
Once created, I like to display my skeleton properly under some bright museum lights in the laboratory and then allow the scientists and anthropologists, the anatomy specialists and the interns a good thorough look while I take a little break.
I pat myself on the back for developing and assembling such a well developed set of bones.
I shuffle back home, turn on the television (DEADLIEST CATCH!) read a few books, get caught up on the months of laundry and wander out to the laboratory to gaze on my creation and celebrate my huge success.
Such a pretty skeleton.
Eventually that skeleton starts staring back and whispers little secrets to me: wouldn't I be a better friend if I had a brain—you know, if I only had a brain? Wouldn't you like to shake my hand . . . my flesh covered hand? Warm, good grip, firm. Don't you think I'd like to see you? Glasses, 20/20, lasik, whatever. Clothes . . . it's getting a bit nippy in here! I need a heart . . . I'm not the tin man for god's sake. Teeth? I might like to enjoy a meal now and again—or a throat even, for some beer. Fingernails? Hair? Muscles? I wanna be ripped.
I argue with my skeleton, my most perfect creation, and remind him that I put a LOT of hard work into his design. I really worked my butt off to get him assembled correctly. Maybe I like him naked.
Ah, yes, perhaps, but I'm only HALF a novel and a half is not a whole.
We argue a lot. I tell him to move aside from the TV because Breaking Bad is up next. He blocks it and I have to peer between his ribs which starts to get old really fast.
Other people start dropping by and commenting on how I've taken this skeleton thing a bit too far, how my work is CLEARLY only half done, dude, can't you give that guy some clothes to wear.
And then I watch some more TV.
And THEN the voices really start to annoy me and I get really pissed off and I return to my skeleton and start looking at him. At his bones. And they just don't look like enough anymore. I thought I liked him that way . . . but he could be so much more if someone just loved him enough to dress him. And get him a beer.
It's a painful process. The novel and I both suffer a lot.
But the neighbors all thank me in the end.