Every morning before Dan goes to work, we have the same conversation. “Honey, how do I look?” I check him over to make sure he hasn’t forgotten his name badge, his hair and beard aren’t doing something weird(er than usual), and the tag isn’t out on his shirt collar.

“You look wrecked,” I say, even though he actually looks fine, with everything in place. I can’t say “fine,” though. Then he thinks I think he looks awful.

This is a holdover from Dan’s childhood. Back then, there were only two categories of being—perfect and awful, which he called “wrecked.” (Therapists call this “all-or-nothing” or “black-and-white” thinking, and it’s something they try to stamp out. It also shows up in rhetoric and logical fallacies, where it appears as an unwillingness to see that there’s a middle ground possible between two extremes. You see it all the time in political debates and advertisements. But I digress.)

So it goes. “Okay” and “good” don’t exist, or “needs pressing,” “here, let me fix that,” or “try again.” “Fantastic” might pass muster, or “terrific,” or “awesome,” but there are really only the two alternatives: perfect and wrecked.

It gets tiresome trying to think of acceptable adjectives. (No one ever looks truly perfect on the way out of the house, not even supermodels. Their shoes are one shade off the perfect tone of red, their earrings are too long, or their hair has a strand or two of frizz. Or, as Coco Chanel advised, they should take off one accessory. But I digress again.)

There’s a saying: Perfect is the enemy of good. But let’s consider good and good enough. Good sounds like it ought to be better than good enough, but it isn’t always. One problem is that you can’t always tell when something you’ve done is truly good. Good enough is sometimes better than good, and really preferable to perfect.

Improvement is a good thing. Revision is often necessary, and there are certain processes in which improvement is almost certainly required. Writing is among them (as are many other arts). Someone who sends a “completed” manuscript to a magazine or book publisher—or even an agent—is just asking for a rejection slip. Any piece of writing can use improvement. Every first draft can use improvement. (There are certain times, like when you’re designing a space suit, that only perfect will do. (Though if you consider Apollo 13, even a lack of perfection isn’t always a death sentence.) But I digress yet again.)

Not recognizing good enough is a problem, though. You can easily get stuck revising again and again, chasing the idea of perfection. Perfection keeps receding in the distance, especially since revisions can at times introduce new flaws or muddy the work. At some point, you simply have to throw up your hands and say, “Good enough,” or at least put what you’re doing away for a while and let it mellow.

This may lead you to believe that deadlines are the enemy of good enough. When you have a hard deadline, you have to finish something whether or not you think it’s good enough. Most times it will be, and if not, there’s an editor, boss, coach, or client who will gladly point out what else your work needs.

It must be said, though, that awful is a waypoint on the path to good enough. You start with something awful and you better and betterer it until it’s good enough (but never perfect). This is true of everything. (Dan looks awful first thing in the morning. It takes time and effort to get him up to “wrecked.” But I digress some more.) Your first draft of a piece of writing. Your first time trying to recreate a dish your grandma used to make (without a recipe). Your first time trying to pole vault. Even your first attempt at designing a space suit.

So, if you’re trying an endeavor, whether an artistic pursuit or simply getting ready in the morning, remember not to strive for perfect. My advice: Strive for better and settle for good enough. You’ll be happier without the added pressure of an impossible goal!