Cringe, cringe, cringe

I spent this evening looking over my novel (you know, the one I thought was finished). Let's just say it stinks worse than the kitty litter box next to my computer desk. I hadn't read it for over a year. And that's a good thing. That's what you're supposed to do--let your novel sit for a while so you can get it out of your brain before you tear it to shreds. But really, I'm surprised I let anybody read it. It needs some work. Hmm, maybe I'll go back to school and try nuclear physics or rocket science. That seems easier right now than all the work it will take to fix it up. The first half will require major revision. The second half will require complete rewriting, and then revision on top of that.
It's not like I hate myself because my writing sucks so much. I'm just kind of surprised that I've spent years of my life on it and it still sucks! It's not that I think I can't write. It's that I know I can do better.
My writing bud who has three publishing contracts at the moment is very glad her first novel was not published when she first finished it--it was her sixth that was accepted. I don't know whether or not I have six novels in me (though apparently I do have at least three). So I'm not alone.
Also, I think I deserve lots of credit for working through children's naptimes, pregnancy-related heartburn, and toilet training. Not everyone can say they've written a book. I can brag about that. I'll just skip the cat litter comparisons when I'm trying to impress people.