Proposal Land

Better RFP Responses & Management
 
Proposal Land

Term: Red Team Review

Traditionally, the executive and (one hopes!) senior technical review of the completed proposal. Generally shortened to Red Team.

In this usage, Red Team is the final review that can amend content before the proposal is submitted to the client. Subsequent reviews and changes should be limited to presentation niceties.


Postscript: This definition, and the associated one for Red Team, are from my book “Proposals: Getting Started, Getting Better.” I still concur with that 2014 view of my world, but see it as a wee bit messier than I did then.

Term: Red Team

Technically, the group of people conducting the Red Team Review, but used just as often to mean the review itself, as in, “When’s Red Team?” This terminological sloppiness is common in Proposal Land; in this case, there’s really no harm because it’s always obvious from context whether the reference is to the players or the game.


Postscript: This definition, and the associated one for Red Team Review, are from my book “Proposals: Getting Started, Getting Better.” I still concur with that 2014 view of my world, but see it as a wee bit messier than I did then.

The Cost of Distance

Doing proposals from home was my new normal long before COVID-19. It sort of snuck up on me. One year I was staying in worn Toronto hotels for weeks at a time, eating room-service meals at 8PM, and the next I was tip-tapping away in my home office, jumping up to move the laundry over when the buzzer went.

I like working from home, mostly. I even turned down a contract last year mostly because it would have required me to work from a downtown office for information-security reasons.

At home, I can work my own schedule, as long as I meet deadlines. I save time and money and wear-and-tear in the commute, whether that’s by car or by bus. I save money in lunches out. I avoid most interpersonal conflicts. I can concentrate better, with fewer interruptions and no disruptions. All good, right?

Not quite.

Whether it’s just me or the whole team that’s working remotely, there is an administrative cost to working at a distance. It’s hard to quantify but it’s real nevertheless. It’s the cost of communicating with people I never see.

It’s the time to develop detailed but clear spreadsheets to track and communicate the status of each proposal section, rather than just maintaining a sheet on the wall. It’s the time to check in with everyone by email or phone or video conference rather than just catching them when they walk by. It’s the delay in getting an answer on a simple point — a clarification on the operations concept, the latest title for a given position — when the person you need to connect with is not sitting on their phone or email. It’s the time to untangle miscommunications and misinterpretations that would never have happened in person — and the delay in even realizing that they’ve occurred — when you can’t see that glazed look on someone’s face.

On one distance proposal where I was coordinating a gaggle of writers and editors, I figured that extra communication took an hour or two out of every day. That’s a whack of lost productivity.

But even in the absence of a global pandemic, there’s no going back to full on-site proposals. The measurable costs are too high: office space, computer infrastructure, travel, and accommodations. As businesses re-jig their space and their processes to enable work-from-home (WFH, the newest acronym I know) for public-health purposes, they could do worse than to check with their proposal teams to get a realistic assessment of what it’s going to cost.

 

A Man Walks Into a Bar – Riff #7

A misplaced modifier walks into a bar
owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph.

Looking for love in all the wrong places, eh?

Well, not exactly. But looking for meaning can be a challenge, too, when the words are in all the wrong places. Or even some of the wrong places.

Of all the silly mistakes I make in writing, this is one where at least I know *why* it happens: I know what I’m referring to when I add a modifier, so that should be good enough, right?

Well, not exactly. Just as staring at an offending passage on the screen doesn’t move my cursor to the right spot for deleting something, merely knowing what I mean doesn’t get the words in the right place. This is why we get others to read our stuff. Unencumbered by any knowledge of what we were thinking, they read what we actually wrote.

The good news? These mistakes are usually easy to fix, although since each one is its own beast, it’s hard to give step-by-step instructions. My general principle is to put the thing or person you’re talking about first, followed immediately by the description.

A misplaced modifier walks into a bar
owned by Ralph, a man with a glass eye.

 

 

Term: Responsive

An answer that responds to the question and all parts thereof, with the information that is actually wanted. (I know – what a concept, right?)

The opposite of the canonical teenaged response to a parental enquiry:

Parent: Where are you going?

Teen: Out.

Parent: When will you be back?

Teen: Later.