I, for one, agree. It took you valuable time to produce that failure. You earned it, and let's face it, there's a lot in there that you love. It's the little things mostly, a character here, a street name there, and especially that one golden line that you were so proud of, even though your friends and family assured you that it was far too cumbersome to be readable.

I believe everyone who has ever written has produced one of these, a massive disappointment they promise themselves will one day be revised and perfected. For most, however, this is a promise never realized. It's just too much trouble to revisit those same disappointments and face the fact that we're capable of failing from time to time. Still, I believe it is important to do just this.

You were right to think your work deserved better. Moreover, you deserve better. You deserve to understand how it is that you failed to meet your own expectations, and how not to make the same mistakes twice. To this end, i propose a deconstruction.

The idea is to reacquaint yourself with those old familiar scenes, to get in there again, not just to read, but to read with intent. This time you must scan the lines with laser-beam eyes, unforgiving of your mistakes and even less forgiving of your successes, because as you read, you will write, and as you write, not one word should be offered safe harbor.

This is not an edit, far from it. It's an exercise in stream of consciousness understanding. It's ultimately an attempt to break value out of your crystallized failure. If you give it everything you've got, then you may end up with a derivative work that stumbles onto greatness far beyond your expectations for the original text.

So what is there to do? Well, it's simple really. You'll need to read, but you must read differently than you are used to. You'll need to read like an archaeologist, as though you were attempting to divine meaning from some artifact text. The words you have written have greater value, I believe, than that which you have actually given them in their context. So read slowly, and as you read, write down the things your words lead you to think. Write down the trivial whatevers that pass through your mind as you stumble over the bad sentences. Write down your own misinterpretations and those you remember others mentioning as they read. If you encounter a bit of thin or fuzzy logic, rework it or follow the implied path wherever it wants to go. If you find bogus facts, research the truths of them and follow the answers to the places where they point.

You will form a collection of notes, not for the improvement of the original, but for the creation of something new, something composed wholly of those notes and notes about those notes. The point is to follow your ideas to the places they want you to go, to follow without reason and show all of the strings and bread crumbs that have lead the way. The idea is to write in great volume about the tiny details and ignore the their intended purpose, to unlock all of the doors you were forced to close in favor of linear narrative, and to uncover the hidden places they protect. This sort of thing defies structure. It challenges rational thought and ultimately, it may uncover whatever it was that you were actually trying to accomplish in the first place.

When the last note has been written, do whatever you like with the results. Annotate the original text with your findings. Assemble them into a work of hybrid indulgence. Manufacture a mobile of wisdom enriched Dixie cups to dangle above your writing space. Whatever you do, don't leave these scraps buried like you did the original work. If you give this excursion every bit of your honesty and passion, these notes will probably illustrate the kernel essence of what it is that you will spend the rest of your life writing about, and so they deserve at least a little respect.