A Madness in My Method

I've been me and worked with myself long enough to know how I roll.

Like the stages of grief to acceptance, I have my own way of doing things. I wish I had Visio on this PC. I'd draw you a picture. It's not a real process unless it has a flowchart.

Anyway, here's how it works:

Step 1. I am handed a new project. I am overjoyed. Here at last is the project for which I was made. My mother labored in a delivery room 54 years ago just for this specific moment.

Step 2. Boldly, I dive into the new project. I feel like I'm in a David Hockney painting because everything is so clear, no shadows, so linear, no toxic heaps on the floor. I swim flawlessly for 25% of the time. Then...

Step 3. I submit my work thus far for approval. Any confidence I had on steps 1 and 2 has by now disintegrated into jitters and the inability to look the project in the eye while I know my superiors are reviewing my work. I imagine them burying their heads in their hands, saying, "I'm not gonna tell her. You tell her. I know she was really counting on this, but for crying out loud, can't she even write a simple Whatever?"

Depending on my mood, the alternative is Ralphie Parker's fantasy in "A Christmas Story" when he hands in his "What I Want for Christmas" essay. The teacher is in such ecstasies that she writes "A+ + + + + +" all around the room.

Either scenario results in my hiding my head and playing Bejeweled 2 obsessively.

Step 4. I finally trank myself down enough to ask the question that seldom fails:

I don't know what to do next but if I did, I would ___________

Usually, it's simple to fill in the blank, even when I'm waiting for feedback.

I realize right now I'm operating in what feels like a vacuum to me and that does nothing to quell my nervousness.

Step 5. Accept that no answer will be immediately forthcoming and get to work. I realize that I may be leading myself down my own primrose path, but eh, it's something to do.

Step 6. Receive feedback. There are three possible scenarios here.

Scenario 1: They love me! They love me and think every word I write, including if, and, and the, is a perfect shrine to Strunk & White. Carry on, carry on!

Scenario 2: They hate me. I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. The document is covered with so many corrections that it looks like it's bleeding. I hang my head in despair and wait for the axe to fall.

Scenario 3: They think it's good but it needs some work. Could I finish up with the task matrices?

This whole business will be repeated until, um, it ends.