I'm just gonna say it: I'm a control freak. And a perfectionist. And a workaholic.
This is probably part of why being a writer suits me--other than setting up some deadlines and saying "this has to happen at some point," my editor and publisher are pretty hands-off, and that means I get to be my own bossypants. And I'm more likely to over-do than procrastinate or under-do, so despite concerns about my psychological health, I tend to get stuff done when and how it needs to be done.
(This does not mean I'm not needy as hell. I'm surprised my editor has not blocked me. Seriously. During developmental edits, I sent her so many enormous emails full of My Thoughts that my own mother would've strangled me, and my editor actually read them all. That's professionalism, kids.)
So for me, the lack of micromanaging (and adult supervision, really) isn't a detraction. What is a detraction are those few steps where I'm required to put my baby...ahem, my book, into the hands of other people.
This is not to imply that those other people are bad at their jobs, because they are actually brilliant. This is to imply that I'm kind of a jerk when it comes to letting other people do something when I have a certain idea about how it should be done. That idea might not be the best one, which is why I do eventually shut my gob and let other people get on with it, but that doesn't mean it's easy.
Which is how we get to the nail-biting process that is deciding on cover art. I say nail-biting because my publisher uses actual professionals for this part of the job, rather than asking me to do it, which is good for my career but does not feed my insane-making perfectionist side.
Anyway, it's not my job to do the cover. That honor goes to the marketing people, who, let's face it, know a heck of a lot more about this stuff than I ever will.
That does not mean it's easy to keep my grubby paws to myself.
It's a good thing that the timeline for pre-publication isn't clearly defined. If I'd gotten an email that said I could expect my cover art on a specific day, I'd have spent every day between the receipt of that email and the actual delivery pacing around like a nervous dog during a thunderstorm. I mean...it wouldn't be pretty. At all.
But the point is that for all of my "I want to do it myself so I can make it perfect!" whining, it turns out that it's a good thing that my inner perfectionist did not get her way.
It's gorgeous. That is all.