I managed to read maybe 40 out of the 300 double-spaced pages - maybe 10,000 words - cringing at every second line.
It's awful. Almost nothing is "salvageable". The prose is turgid when it isn't amateurishly ornate; the dialogue is mostly serviceable but pointless - it seldom impels the plot; and, of the plot, the first 10,000 words don't do much to hint that there is one to speak of.
I am still intrigued by the protagonist, and by the young girl she "adopts" as her daughter, still want to explore the lives of some of the supporting characters, still find that the basic idea - the story - is one I want to tell, but there is no longer any doubt in my mind: I must start over, must write it anew, if I am going to write it all.
There is a part of me that wants to give up on it entirely - didn't some famous writer famously give his first novel to the fire? But this is not my first novel; it is my third (and I shudder to think how bad those two must be), and I fear I must finish it before I will be able to write another.
Well. All right, then. Finish it I must.
1,000 words a day and I will have a complete ("first") draft - with luck, one that does not make me cringe - before spring has given way to summer.
It seems to me I have no choice, if I really am a writer and not just an ageing poser playing his part.