Print out the whole draft, marveling at all the words you conjured out of nothing.
Read through it. Make notes as you go along: mark where the structure is illogical, where the characters are acting OOC, cross out the stream-of-consciousness filler, and don’t forget to add lots of question marks in the margins.
Go back to your original document. Start making changes.
Fiddle around with the structure until it’s more logical and/or interesting, starting with the first chapter.
Flesh out scenes. Write 500 words of descriptions you skipped the first time.
Delete 1000 words of that same chapter.
Force yourself to move on to the next chapter, even though the previous one is still hella flawed.
Get lost in the chapter with the worst structure and content so far. Stare at your piece of shit document for hours on end.
Move scenes forward in the novel. If you build it up more slowly, it will be better and more logical. Of course, now you’ll have to write a lot of new scenes in-between.
Scenes, new scenes. You can figure this out.
Get a drink.
Stare at the document for several more hours and hours until your eyes are burning out of your skull.
Force the words out, all words, any words. Scenes are made out of words, right?
Read what you’ve written the following day. Delete 75% of the chapter.
You’ve been working on the same chapter for two weeks, haven’t you?
Is the prospect of the remaining 23 chapters giving you panic attacks yet?
Twenty-three, twenty-three, will the end ever come in sight?
Why did you ever write a novel?
Why did you ever think you should be a writer?
You should have gone to medical school like the other smart, privileged kids.