Writer’s block is not a recognized disease anymore. It vanished sometime back. The solution was simple: go to your draft MS and write something, even a comma would do. So do not take off your writing cap.
Those who have anguished over the block know it is real. Words form in your mind but refuse to get into your pen or PC. Your own characters pound your brain to a pulp. Depart sleep, you who have deserted me, anyway.
How do you get over the block? Bleed at the typewriter. That was Hemingway. Bleed your heart out. You have five liters of blood. Enough to last a while, enough to prolong the suffering some more. Bleed, Soldier.
Or have a lover’s tiff. Don’t talk to your story. Let it suffer too in the birthing pangs.
Think about things that have nothing to do with your story. Think about God or supernovae. Or the wind on the brook.
Or weep on your blog like me. It is public; it is shameful. But go on. Do what you have to do. That thing about sitting at your desk is true. Eventually, it will come. The waves of torment in your silly heart will cease.
A work of art has a life of its own. It is alive. It breathes and eats. You are its food. The characters you think you created, created themselves from the seed they planted in your mind.