Deciding what done looks like

The practical part of this book has two halves. This chapter is the first. It takes about two minutes per piece of work, and it happens before you start.

The trouble with polishing, as chapter 1 said, is that you can't say what you're looking for. You're waiting to feel finished, and chapter 7 explained why that feeling doesn't arrive. So the decision about when to stop can't be left to the end, when the wince is in charge. It has to be made at the beginning, when you're calm and the work doesn't exist yet to be anxious about.

Before you begin anything that would normally tempt you to polish, write down four things. A sticky note will do, or the top of the document, to be deleted later.

First, who it's for and what they'll do with it. "The team, six people, to read before Thursday's meeting so we can decide whether to drop the second supplier." Most stopping problems are really purpose problems. If you know exactly what the thing has to achieve, you can tell when it's achieved it.

Second, the grade, on the scale from chapter 8. "This is a seven." If you find yourself wanting to write nine for everything, ask what would happen if it were a seven. Usually the honest answer is nothing.

Third, what done looks like, in terms someone else could check. Keep it to three or four items. "States where each of the three suppliers stands. Gives the two prices we're still waiting for. Says what I recommend and why. No more than two pages." These are the line. Notice that none of them is "reads beautifully" or "couldn't be criticised". Those can't be checked, which is why they've been able to keep you up past midnight.

Fourth, a time budget and a sending time. "Two hours on Sunday. One check on Monday morning. Sent by ten on Monday." The sending time matters most. If someone else has set the deadline, make yours earlier, because the work is more useful early, and you want to break the habit of sending at the last minute. Where you can, tell the recipient. "I'll get that to you by ten on Monday." Once you've made a promise to a person, you'll find it harder to let the date slide than you did with a private intention.

That's the whole of it. It takes two minutes, and what it does is move the definition of finished out of your feelings and onto a piece of paper.

Some jobs will resist this, and it's worth knowing which. Creative work with no client and no deadline is the hardest, since nobody is waiting and there's no purpose outside yourself. For that kind, I'd suggest inventing the missing parts. Choose a reader, a particular friend perhaps, and promise them a date. "I'll send you the first three chapters on the first of the month, in whatever state they're in." A date that someone else knows about does most of the work that a deadline does.

Very small jobs don't need the four lines, but they do need the grade. Before writing an email, take one second to think, "This is a four." Then write it once, read it once and send it. If you currently reread routine emails three times before sending, this one change could give you back half an hour a day. That estimate is mine and is only an illustration.

You may worry that you'll set the line too low. It's possible, and the first few times you may well misjudge it. That's what the next chapter's experiment is for. In my view you're much more likely to set it too high. Someone with this habit who aims for a seven is likely to end up nearer an eight.

One more suggestion. Get something in front of the recipient early when you can. This might be an outline, or a rough half-page, or a sketch. Ask, "Is this the right sort of thing?" It feels exposing, because the work is visibly unfinished. But it's the cheapest way of finding out what the reader wants. It also guards against the worst outcome, which is ten hours of polish on something that turns out to answer the wrong question.