Research is like Frankenstein’s monster and I am Victor Frankenstein himself. Research starts with an inspired idea about how I think I can change the world for the better, just as Victor Frankenstein thought he could put an end to death. At first, it seems like a daunting task but it enthralls me, almost consumes me in a mad fever as I search for the pieces that I need in order to begin to create. As I collect the pieces, or data I need, I begin to compile them into this entity - this body - that begins to take on a shape greater than anything I could have yet imagined. I learn more from the work I perform than from the endless hours spent being lectured. As I progress, I spend hours slaving away making sure that the raw materials fit perfectly together in order to support the body of my work. It is visceral and begins to flesh itself out as the synthesis of reality and dreams, or quantitative data and qualitative data, begin to take form. Sometimes I find that a piece fits perfectly and it is delicately stitched into place. Other times the member is incongruent and becomes an obsolete and grotesque visage of the truth I seek, tossed aside as refuse. Blood, sweat, and tears go into every consideration, every sleepless moment I spend hell-bent to see my creation come to life. Then, finally, after what seems to be an eternity of anticipation I receive a lightning stroke of inspiration that strikes my creation; my opus takes on a life of its own.Exalted in the resplendence of my work, I cry out “It’s Alive!” Yes, I can see now how my toil has not gone unrewarded.

     In my reveries, I nearly forget that the work is not completed yet; my creation must meet the world. While the truth of this new life, this research, is apparent to me, it must be reviewed by others in order for it to be validated. I sense a feeling of dread at the notion of allowing others to scrutinize my efforts but realize the gravity of its importance. With reluctance, I set my creation free. It is powerful; it can no longer be contained. Scientific inquiry and my peers, the world, must determine the creature’s fate: will it be recognized as the gift to the world that it was meant to be or will it be found lacking: a hideous aberration of methodological and systematic review? Through the stygian night, as I wait, my dreams are troubled by an eldritch nightmare far removed from the constructs of reality. In my dreams, my creation is a monster that has caused irreparable harm to others and my reputation and I spend years being tormented by it. I am now seen as a pariah among my peers. So, I spend all of my time attempting to eradicate the demon of my imagination and perspiration until at last we meet in mutual tragedy upon the frozen wastelands of academic obscurity. However, it is just a dream and when I wake in the morning, I find that my creation is not a monster at all; it has become an accepted servant of man that is regarded as valid and highly generalizable. My creation has found its utility and my methods have been found to be sound. Now, like any good parent should do, I must leave my child to find its way in the world, to be used by others towards the benefit of those who need it. Now that my creation has been set free, I turn my back from my laboratory to venture into the world again. It is time to find new inspiration. Perhaps my monster needs a mate.