Last night my friend Elizabeth and I drove to Kent State to see/hear W.S. Merwin read. The trip was more than two hours way, and well worth the time. Merwin is 83 years old, yet he spoke and read non stop for 90 minutes. I am almost half his age, but I'm not sure I can talk that long. Perhaps he was energized by the hundreds of poetry lovers in the audience.
I'm trying to revise an old, possibly failed, novel and I can't get past the first page. If I'm bored, imagine how legions of strangers would react after shelling out money for the privildge of being tortured by my words. You, blog reader, at least get this drivel for free.
Elizabeth suggested I start where the main character conceives his "idea." Maybe. The problem is, the character posess few "rooting qualities, meaning the reader won't root for him to succeed. One friend described him as creepy. So maybe this sheaf of 200 plus pages is better off in the recycle bin, and I can free up space on my hard drive when I hit the delete key.
Writing is one bad decision after another. In revision either we make it worse, or the words find their own orbit.