You must feed the void or it will feed on you. That is what writing is. It is standing on a precipice, staring into an endless hole with no guarantee, no possibility really, that you will ever be able to fill it up. And while the void is deep enough already, if you wait, if you stand still, it will widen, and you will fall in.
The void is full of what all dark places hold: depression, fear, longing, despair. That is why you must feed it. To keep it at bay. You must finish a story, come to its very end, and complete it despite the void telling you it isn’t any good. Because it doesn’t matter if it is any good. You have made something despite emptiness. And you can still feed it to the void. It is finished. In this world where you circle an endless pit, you finally have something to throw into it. You have something to start filling the hole. And once you have something finished, you can, you must start again. Because in feeding the void, you are feeding yourself. And in yelling into the emptiness there is always the possibility the emptiness (that isn’t really emptiness) will yell back.