Why Is She Doing This?

I've been writing for almost as long as I can remember. After learning to read at age four, I developed a nearly insatiable appetite for the written word. At some point along the line, I realized I had as much of a desire to create as I did to imbibe it. Oddly enough, I never gave much thought as to why writing became such an important part of my life over the years. At least, not until fairly recently.
Earlier this year, I read a blog entry by Terrance Zdunich, an artist and actor whom I greatly admire. In "Pass The Wabi-Sabi",  he wrote something that really resonated with me:

"As an artist, I’m driven to create works that’ll last forever. My art impulse also strives to make things perfect, even when I know that everything fades and nothing will ever be complete. Certainly not complete enough."

 As paradoxical as this may sound, it does make sense. Every artist wants their work to stand out, but they also want it to be flawless, appearing exactly the way they originally envisioned it. Of course, things in life often go awry.
My main reason for writing is simple: I want to create something that will be left behind long after I'm gone. The biggest obstacle in achieving this is my own unflagging sense of perfectionism. I've been working on my first novel, Poison In the Wound, for the past three years now. Much has changed since I first started putting pen to paper. I would probably be a lot farther along by this point if I weren't so damned insistent on getting every word down right. At my current estimate, I'd say I'm about a quarter of the way through. I could let myself skate by with a mediocre first draft, but it just wouldn't feel right.  
Even if Poison doesn't get anywhere, I'll be satisfied that I've managed to leave something behind that bears my particular signature long after I've rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.