I work in fits and starts. Intense effort, obssessiveness to detail, with an incessant and nonstop drive until I either finish it or just burn out. Either way I grow to hate the creation - whatever it is - shelves, paintjob, workbench, patio, essay, computer program.
The thing becomes a master to me and I start to hate it for being such a cruel, unrelenting and unpleasable taskmaster. I project my perfectionist obsessions onto the inanimate object I'm working on until I either hate it so much I abandon it as yet another imperfect unfinished project or if I do finish it I rarely look at it with much satisfaction. Usually more of a resentment for the punishment I had to endure to get it "just right" (which it never is).
Looking at the finished project sometimes gives me flashbacks of "PTJD" (post-traumatic job disorder) where I relive the frustration of working for hours or days with little food or sleep, obsessing about that 91-degree angle, that faint streak of light color or that phrase that just doesn't flow right. I get to the point where I don't even want to see the damn thing once I'm done with it.
You don't have enough choices there [b]SA[/b]. For me - it's never "good enough" and it's never "perfect" either.
Like now.
Fuck it.