By Cara Hösterey
it's 10:56 pm, the evening before the deadline of this month's newsletter. there is absolutely no reason for me to not have started writing already. i’m not that busy, really. the first part's a lie, actually. there is a very real reason i didn't give myself sufficient time: if i did, my piece would have to be good. if this turns out terrible, i'll just convince myself it’s solely because i had to rush, not because maybe, i’m just a bad writer. maybe, i should just not write anything anymore. i’ll never come close to the greatness of the authors i admire. honestly, i probably don’t even compare to my peers, talented as they are. i have procrastinated on every single piece i’ve ever written for samefaces but the very first one. in the weeks leading up to the deadlines, i daydream about potential topics for me to explore, convinced that that month’s piece will be the first one i am actually proud of. one that deserves being published alongside the stunning work of the other staff members and contest winners. and yet, i seem to be unable to actually put in the work to achieve my goal, a goal that i am never sure i can achieve in the first place. once i get myself to sit before my notebook, the words come quite easily, they just need a hell of a lot of editing, editing that is time-consuming. and i never give myself time. so i email my half-assed piece on a topic that calls for more care and precision than i allow myself to give it. every month without fail, my heartbeat is rampant as i am about to press ‘send’, i am anxious and doubtful, conscious of all the ways in which what i wrote is lacking, and unable of changing them. i know i am doing myself a disservice, and the other writers, too. it is now past midnight. i’ve just written the word ‘imposter’ in janky handwriting on a picture of myself. about 50 times. is that art?