Those who work with me know that my preferred method of professional communication is email. I love it for several reasons, including the ability to respond on my timeline, the written history of correspondence, and the ability to professionally convey a point without having to slap someone upside the head. In short, in my opinion, email rules.
To manage the three inboxes I maintain, I typically schedule myself for one hour each day to conduct what I call "email triage." This is when I carefully sift through that day's emails, dot my I's, and cross my T's. Make sure I haven't missed anything.
But this week, more so than weeks of recent memory, has been tough. It's been busy, chaotic, and I've been on the road for part of it; a perfect storm. And I have not enjoyed the luxury of any email triage. My inboxes are vast wastelands of unanswered correspondence, unfulfilled requests, and chinks in my professional armor. I am a woman in a skirt with unshaved legs.
For some, it's probably not a big deal. But for me, it's a very big deal. I don't ignore emails. And I pride myself on accessability and timely responses.
And so, my daily email triage is now relegated to the bowels of the workweek: Friday evening. I sit, poised at my computer with the only armor I have: a glass of wine. I am ready, I am equipped, and I'm going in.
A few years ago, I recall reading an article about people who were declaring email bankruptcy. They were admitting, in essence, to their inability or unwillingness to keep up with the barrage of electronic communication. They were starting over. Demanding a clean slate. And, as someone who has let her inboxes go, I get it. But I'm not quite there yet.
And so, while some may be starting their weekend and relaxing, I am poised to begin picking off days-old messages, one by one. Like an email sniper.
Wish me luck.