Polishing, polishing, polishing

A teacher I had once told me that I must be a true artist because I'm never happy with my own work. I'm constantly tweaking, constantly fixing a word here or there.

I'm convinced now it's a curse. You'd think at some point I'd think, "There! Now it's perfect."

I've never yet hit that point. Either I'm not that good, or I'm suffering from a mental illness.

Then again... if I ever *do* hit the point where I think my work is finished... what's left? Would I still want to write? What would be the point in striving to be better if I thought I was already the best I could be?

Worse... what if God decided his work in me was done? I sure wouldn't want him giving up on me, either. I guess he's always polishing up on me a bit, too.

Here's to never being completely satisfied, then!