The dreaded middle

Almost every novelist I know hits a point while writing a book at which he or she realizes, with a deep and deafening certainty, that the book is crap, utter rubbish. This point occurs about a third of the way into the book and lasts until the last ten or twenty percent of the book. No reassurances will help the writer stuck in this pit. No knowledge of past accomplishments will remove the dread.

The only path out is to forge ahead, knowing that what you're writing sucks but doing it nonetheless because, well, what else is there?

I'm in the middle of Slanted Jack right now, and the dread is keeping me company. I work from a fairly detailed outline, and once upon a time, lo these few months ago, the outline seemed to me to represent a good book, a book I'd like reading, that possibly others might also enjoy reading. Courtesy of the dread, I know now that I was only fooling myself, that the book sucks, that I suck, that it's all hopeless.

Still, I'll keep writing, day in and day out, every day, no days off.

What else is there?