I like green. I think this has been adequately established. I keep playing with green beadwork projects, some more effective than others.
The pendant on one of them was originally this borosilicate glass flame, flashed in the same pink-gold as some of the #8 seed beads in the right angle weave chain. 
I never liked the result, though I love this flame and hope to use it on something better. It just wasn’t right for this particular necklace. For design reasons, I wanted to keep the iridescent gold/matte green colorway, with highlights of lighter green and bronze-gold.
Cue the oval canary-yellow Cubic Zirconium pendant I found in the clearance pile at a local hobby shop, because the lower right edge and the bail hole had been chipped. By itself, it was really garish. But protected in an iridescent green and bronze seed bead bezel, the pendant assumed a quieter golden glimmer. A leftover double-drilled dichroic glass station with silver, green, and amber highlights became a centerpiece, after I wrapped it in ladder-stitch frames. Once I added new flanking tubes in faceted green-gold Czech glass beads, the whole necklace suddenly became a lot more fun to wear.
Yesterday, I mentioned a lesson in here that I can apply to my writing.
For years, as I was learning various craft skills, I made the usual mistake of excusing defects or simply not seeing them. I wince when I look back on fifteen-year-old beadwork pieces. They’re made with the wrong stitches, the wrong threads, the wrong beads. I let my knots show. I hadn’t the faintest idea how to build custom toggle clasps that actually fit the piece, so I made do with awkward experiments involving glass buttons, metal findings, and even flat glass discs.
I went years without addressing those mistakes, only aware that I wasn’t wearing that jewelry and didn’t feel comfortable selling it. I jumped back into beadwork two years ago. Because I no longer had much emotional attachment to those old pieces, I could finally see their flaws.
Here is perhaps the ultimate expression of I-Just-Didn’t-Know-Better: a circa 2000 long vest called ‘Green Beads for Blues Night’ which actually went on to win an award at a big international bead convention a few years later. 
(No, the model isn’t me; she and the photo are courtesy of Bead & Button Magazine.)
This is a lovely thing. It can, and will, be better. I’ll replace the clunky glass donut clasps with stronger findings. I’ll anchor the loosening stitches with a saddle-grade waxed polyester from my friends at Maine Thread, instead of the cheap crappy nylon thread I used in the first round. And if I am ever insane enough to make an eight-pound long vest in glass beads again, I’m using braided steel jewelry cable and metal crimps to anchor the netting.
Why?
I cannot sell this piece as it exists. I can’t even display it for long. It’s disintegrating under its own weight as the nylon ages and the sharper bead edges slowly slice the threads apart. If I wore it in public and the thing fell apart off my shoulders, I’d probably call it performance art and yell “Watch your step! Free beads!”. If it happened to a client, I would be mortified.
But I don’t regret making it, just as I don’t regret any of the million+ words of crap I have written in the decades since I decided to try writing. I learned from every single sentence. Now it’s up to me to weed through my past efforts and see what can be salvaged for parts, rebuilt entirely, or consigned to permanent storage.
And it’s on me to swallow my instinctive pride when a beta reader or an editor calls me out on a sentence, a passage, or an entire story that just doesn’t work. Because it might, possibly, be so good that people don’t understand its brilliance.
More likely, it has big problems I need to fix.