Rewriting a novel, a cry from the midst of chaos

Three and a half years ago, you remember, when we were all younger and more enthusiastic and had more energy, I started writing a sci-fi noir novel for NaNoWriMo. Because of a bad back which turned out to be a slipped disc, I wasn't carrying my miniature computer with its heavy battery, instead writing longhand in a purple notebook at lunchtimes and on the train. As usual with me and NaNo, the 50,000 word target drifted way past the end of November and it was January before I declared myself finished.

In between all the other stuff, and allowing for the periods where I couldn't face sitting at a computer (that back thing again) I eventually got the raw first draft typed up. Then I printed it out, wrote on it, crossed things out, split it into chapters and amended the file accordingly. And left it alone for a year.

In the meantime I re-read a couple of how-to-write-novels books and had a long think, and came to the conclusion that I had major flaws, possibly a character that didn't need to be there, and not enough tension. I also realised that I didn't know my world, despite the maps I'd drawn at the beginning and the history of the state that I'd dropped in here and there. I sat with a stack of scrap paper and wrote myself a list of questions (140 so far) ranging from the vague 'What is really going on vs what appears to be going on?' to the incredibly specific 'What does Maud's cafe smell like?'. The latter has no bearing on the plot whatsoever, but it felt like something I needed to know.

Even if you can read my writing I don't think it gives anything away

So I haven't forgotten you, dear reader. In fact it could be said that I'm doing this for your benefit, as maybe someday some of you will read Sunrise Over Centrified City and you'll thank me for making a better job of it. Now I must get back to answering such pressing questions as 'Are all the barges pulled by horses?' and 'How old is Greg?'.