I'm at that point again where I don't angrily give up or through embarrassment stop churning out stupid plot points. It's actually cooler than that. I feel it's all not worth the time and effort. I lose interest. It's not important. It's not worth getting worked up over. Writing a novel is no more important that say whether I do the laundry today or tomorrow or whether I take up dancing. It has that much effect on my life. That's how it seems.
I did write yesterday and I plan to write today. However, I am behind and will most likely stay behind unless this post has broken open that log jam of unimportance. Writer's block is a subtle thing. It is not obvious. If it were then it were obviously overcome. It's the thing that suddenly finds me greatly interested in and full of energy for housework. Doing the dishes was never more fun. Cleaning the bathroom is a gift from the gods. That's writer's block. Anything that is usually onerous and boring is now the most exciting thing on earth. Because it takes the place of writing. Because my real job, the one that matters in the great scheme of things, is to be a good housekeeper.
There's no point in asking why. Much better to seize the opportunity to get some housework done and let the writing take care of itself. I can no more stop writing than I can stop breathing. Time cures all ills.