Bear’s inspection sticker expired in August. Since September 10th, he’s been “living at large,” darting the cops in his muffler-broken, rusted-rockers, and every-single-dashboard-light-on Ford Explorer. This isn’t to say he hasn’t been looking for a new car… He’s been looking for five months. But that perfect one hasn’t popped up yet. And believe me, I can testify to the number of hours he has spent perusing Craigslist for something in his price range, as well as taking a peek at the local dealer’s here and there.
The problem isn’t so much that there isn’t anything out there. In fact, I discovered yesterday that Craigslist finds 62 vehicles in his town in his price range. But none of them are The One. He’s looking for a foreign car, a standard, in good condition and passed its last inspection, is newer than 1992, and isn’t a truck/wagon/jeep/big thing. It’s got to be a perfect car if he’s going to put a couple grand into it.
I understand his skepticism. After all, in every aspect of life, we want to present our very best and get the most for our money. Why should he want any less in a new(ish) car? There are, however, two problems with his approach. Number one, he is past out of time to find one, and number two, he second guesses every time he finds a good one:
- “It’s a scam,” he says glumly, and I pull up the Kelly Blue Book listing on the car he’s looking at to reveal that the price is about right.
- “It is a two hour drive,” he whines, staring at the map on the computer screen. I shrug. It is what it is.
- “That’s a lot of money…” he reflects, as though he’s forgotten a new car is going to be a lot of money no matter what.
Unfortunately, these things just sound too familiar to my own pleas some days when it comes to my writing:
- “I’m exhausted,” I say, flopping on my bed after an eight hour work shift.
- “I hate this stupid character… maybe I’ll feel in the mood to write her tomorrow,” I flip through an old draft, then toss in across the room.
- “I only have two hours before work… do I really want to spend it writing?’ I moan, glancing at the clock.
In the end, we all have a gazillion excuses for ourselves, putting off the thing that feels like a responsibility, like homework. Sometimes it feels like the end of the world to have to do something, even if it is something we generally enjoy. After all, why force ourselves to do “work” when we could be playing Zuma Blitz?
What do you do to motivate yourself to get things done?