To quote Shaggy, “Zoiks!” The past two or three weeks have been hell on earth for me, writing-wise. I’d reached the midpoint of my novel, and with that came the inevitable slump. I had zero energy, zero motivation, and, worse, zero ideas of how to transition one scene into another. Or more like one event into another. It sucked. Sucked.

Benevolent forces seemed to have waited till Valentine’s Day – yeah, one of my least favorite days of the year (bathroom cleaning days being the supreme king in the Sucky Day universe) – to show mercy. Somehow something clicked, I was able to work an unplanned event into the story, and now things are once again back on track. So good times are ahead, finally.

I don’t know how other writers manage it, frankly. Digging deep inside oneself for the flimsiest scrap of inspiration (motivation?) to keep him fueled for one more writing day…

And to keep doing that throughout the dreaded slump…

What gets me the most, though, is the fact that I write for an obscure niche (again, contemporary coming-out novels are the bread-and-butter of the LGBT YA market – even better if they’re published by big, mainstream presses), and it’s incredibly difficult keeping the faith through this slump, knowing that the finished product will remain unacknowledged by the vast majority of readers and reviewers because of that belief in what defines the status quo in this market.

This isn’t a self-pitying post. Far from it. I’m well aware of my standing in the LGBT YA market, and I’ve long reconciled myself to the fact that no amount of effort on my or my publisher’s part would change other people’s perceptions of what should be considered “legitimate” genres for gay teen readers.

But the knowledge that all this time and hard work spent on a book that’ll remain way under the market’s radar remains a bitter pill to swallow. Much more bitter, I wouldn’t be surprised, than what a writer of contemporary coming-out novels deals with throughout the writing process. So whenever the midpoint slump comes around to bite me in the ass, the effects are a lot more magnified and more difficult to cope with.

Have I thought about quitting? Actually, yeah – I have. More times than anyone will ever know. At the same time, I end up reminding myself that quitting would be cowardice on my part, and I should keep doing what I’m doing till I’m all out of ideas or simply fall out of love with my kind of stories. Maybe it’s foolish; maybe it’s noble. Who knows? All I’m aware of at present is how awful it can be, being slapped around with bitter truths, when I’m at my lowest point during the writing process.

Digging deep inside for that extra bit of motivation is excruciating.