An age-old marketing tactic in the advertising world is the ticking clock. You’ve all heard that urgent infomercial telling you the deal won’t last on that impressive supply of miracle cleaning products you’ll never use.
You’ve heard it in local car sales spots when the dealership would love to put you in a new vehicle in honor of Presidents Day or Tax Season. From the rate of speech to how many times the screenshot changes in just thirty seconds, these commercials scream “Hurry, Hurry, Hurry!” — even if they don’t come right out and say “Hurry.”
Something as simple as your weekly grocery store flier does this. The sale’s only good for a week. Hurry, hurry. Jump in your new car, freshly cleaned your not-as-good-as-what-you-used-to-use products, and drive down to the market to save $0.35 on mustard. (You’ll spend $35 in gas to get there, but hey, a deal’s a deal.)
And look out when those marketers pair their ticking clock tactic with scarcity. The idea that supplies are limited. (Well, in this age, with the shipping containers floating in a forever holding pattern in some ocean, that may be the case, but go with me on this…)
Not only will the deal price end soon, but you may not even be fast enough to score that eco-friendly bottle of glass cleaner, your new-to-you car, or that jar of mustard. There’s a shortage, don’t ya know?
Hurry, hurry! Get ‘em before they’re gone!
And then there’s the nagging tactic, based on the science that potential customers will become buyers after having seven or more reminders to hurry, hurry, get ‘em before they’re gone.
Well, seems my brain has tried to run that trifecta marketing campaign on me of late. Clearly, I was not my own target audience.
There was this naggy little voice in the back of my head that said (at least seven times, probably more than that), “You should write that awesome blog post about amusement parks before the idea floats away. Hurry. Hurry. Time is wasting. Energy is limited and we don’t know when we’ll get another shipment.”
That naggy brain also employed the skills of Little Miss Muse to do her song and dance all over the place as I struggled through day-to-day issues. “Use these ideas or lose them! Hurry, hurry!” was whispered, hummed, sung, and shouted from her lavender lips as she beat me over the head with her little wand.
I’m still picking glitter out of my hair.
So, to appease the thyroid-fogged, overloaded-with-life-junk brain and to hush up Little Miss, I at least made a list of blog ideas to return to later. I even chose purple paper to further please her. I’d promised to return to the list when things were calmer and clearer and use these ideas until they were all gone.
So today. Today is relatively calm. My head is much clearer than this time last week or last month or last season.
And I pulled out my purple list.
I count seven blog post ideas on my little sheet. Two I used under time pressure and wrote with a muddled mind. Well, good for me. That doesn’t get next week’s blog written. What’s next?
“Something Different.” That’s it. That’s what I wrote. What’s different? I’ve a vague recollection that it would’ve been a cool piece, but the idea eludes me now. Like a bird flown from a cage. I didn’t hurry, hurry. And now it’s gone.
“Red Hat” is another one on the list. Did I see a red hat? Want a red hat? Are we talking Red Had Society? It’s like trying to recall the coolest dream ever, but vapors replace the concrete images that once sprawled behind my eyelids.
“Needed Things.” Perhaps this was supposed to be my grocery list? Again, like a disappearing dove in the hand of a skilled magician, Poof! The premise is gone.
“Amusement Park.” Yeah. I’ve got nothing. I know I’ve no desire to go to an amusement park. I know we’ve been on a rollercoaster of a ride this entire year, making 2020 look like a walk in an amusement park. But that’s it.
“Real Life Stories” with a quote from Neil Gaiman. I thought I knew where I was headed with this one. I actually started to write it today three different times. Trashed all three attempts.
I sit back in my chair and moan.
I lost out on the limited time offer. The quantities ran out on me before I could restock my mental cupboards.
Little Miss is tsk, tsk, tsking at me from the corner. “You should’ve hurried when I said. You should’ve sat your—”
I stop her there before she can insult my rear or further wound my ego.
I toss my purple sheet into the trash.
Little Miss edges closer to my workspace, messing with her new purple eye shadow and making a powdery mess all over her pudgy fingers. “I’m just sayin’…”
She’s such a nag.
I know.
Hurry.
Hurry.
Hurry.
Get ‘em before they’re gone.
Or at the very least, take better notes…
