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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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In the first session , the 159 participants read passages about lay theories (much like in study one, but with longer passages to strengthen the manipulation), listed the resolutions they were planning on making at New Years, rated how disappointed they would be if they failed to keep their resolutions, and filled out individual difference measures (which included a self-efficacy scale).
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And if I chose to make resolutions, I'd be far from alone--a 2008 survey on Dorthy.com found that 66% of the 2000+ adults polled had made resolutions at some point (though only 17% managed to keep them).
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Only 86 participants successfully returned for the second session, during which they indicated how much success they had had at keeping their resolutions.
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What does this mean for your resolutions?
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The resolutions made by participants across all conditions were qualitatively similar (take a look at any list of popular New Year's resolutions, and you'll see the majority of the goals).
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As shown in the first two studies, more goals were set by people who believe self-control is unlimited and malleable than by any other people--that is, if you expect more success, you may increase the difficulty and number of tasks that you set for yourself.
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Self-efficacy did not have a significant effect on goal-setting.
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As far as success goes, only the interaction between lay theory and self-efficacy was significant.
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If participants believed in limited self-control and were low in self-efficacy, they tended to give up more often, failing to achieve their goals.
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But if participants believed in unlimited self-control, self-efficacy had no effect; participants achieved just as many goals regardless, and people who set more resolutions were marginally more likely to succeed.
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Mukhopadhyay & Venkatarmani realize that their research does not directly look at the relationship between lay theories of self-control and beliefs about one's own amount of self-control and self-efficacy, and propose this as an area for future study.
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But in general, lay theories about self-control can determine how much success you'll expect (and thus, how many goals you'll set), and self-efficacy beliefs can determine how much success you'll actually have.
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References
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Mukhopadhyay, A. & Johar, G.V. (2005).
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Where There Is a Will, Is There a Way?
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Effects of Lay Theories of Self-Control on Setting and Keeping Resolutions.
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Journal of Consumer Research , 31, 779-786 [ PDF ]
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Making resolutions: It's about self-control
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The question Anirban Mukhopadhyay of the Hong Kong University and Gita Venkatarmani Johar of the Graduate School of Business at Columbia University asked is this: What determines how many goals a person will set, and how successful a person will be at achieving those goals?
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They performed a few studies in 2005 to look at the relationship between self-control, goal setting, and goal achievement.
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Several boards were missing, making a door to the small room inside.
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The tall tumbleweed flag marked it as Chad's to defend now.
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"You suck." Chad said.
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You suck.
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He looked around, trying not to seem nervous.
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Chad checked the other fort out of the corner of his eye.
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He wished Roy wouldn't fall for that gag every time, "get me a big rock, Roy."
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Two forts stood on the playground, and a hot, bare battlefield separated them.
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A massive, rusted A-frame swing marked the border though nobody was swinging in the hot sun.
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The larger of the two forts was a squat black bunker made of tires, two big tractor tires capped with one from a truck and two smaller ones from cars.
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The older boys lay around in shade and napped inside the walls.
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They were watching now from well defended spy holes, or maybe they were performing secret experiments and swearing bloody oaths.
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Chad wished he were old enough to be one of them.
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Maybe Tucker would let him in after he saw Chad wasn't chicken.
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"You wanna play robots?" Roy asked.
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You wanna play robots?
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Chad felt his heart beat a little faster and his cheeks burned.
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He had invented the "robots" game to make fun of Roy, but Roy had never figured that out either.
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Roy stooped to pick up a big, white caliche rock that looked like a dirty lump of chalk and handed it to Chad.
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It was Roy's favorite game.
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No, go get some stickers.
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Roy shuffled off without argument, his baseball cap pulled low to cover his bald head and brain plug and his shoe laces untied.
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Roy had taught him to tie his shoes when Chad was five.
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He thought about gathering stickers himself.
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Roy was too slow, but he didn't dare step away from his fort.
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He took another careful look over his shoulder and bent to pluck a yucca spear as if that were what drew his interest.
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The tiny barbs hurt, but nobody was allowed to beat you up if you just used stickers.
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The hot August sun was settling toward the time that Mrs. Rayburn would bring the milk tray out of the cinder block building where the toddlers and babies were kept.
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Meanwhile Roy stalked around the fence edge bending to pick cockleburs as he went.
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Chad took the rock with disgust as Roy returned to staring at his shoes.
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Every move Roy made since the accident was smooth and sudden and strange -- like a remote control boy.
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When he saw Roy in the hospital with a shaved head and the small silver plug at the back of his noggin like a bottle cap, Chad had called him, "Remote Control Boy."
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Momma had smacked Chad for saying it which hurt, and then she had cried, which was worse.
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Pop had given Chad the sideways glance that promised hard labor when they made it home.
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Chad just hung his head.
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He knew it was too late to explain that he was trying to get a smile out of Roy.
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Pop said, "The doctors have put something very special in Roy's brain.
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The doctors have put something very special in Roy's brain.
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It's something they made for soldiers and astronauts and it's going to help Roy walk and talk to us again.
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Chad was six, and at eight Roy should have been teasing or ordering Chad around or something.
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Pop put a hand on Roy's shoulder.
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How are you feeling, Roy?
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Pop spoke slowly and Chad knew that he must have been practicing this with Roy.
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They all stood around while the doctor made Roy shake and jerk and moan with a sick sound.
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But the thing in his head hadn't worked yet because of something having to do with the, "electric toads," which wouldn't, "sit up."
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Now, this year, Roy was in the same grade as Chad, and it was embarrassing.
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Roy stepped around the edge of the building and out of sight.
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Just then Tucker Williams came climbing out of the top of the black fort like a gold headed monster.
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Tucker was big, even for a third grader, and he was not quite right in a different way than Roy.
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Tucker was the oldest boy in the playground, and the one who decided the rules of the game.
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But since his fall the year before, Roy had been shuffling and doing what he was told.
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"Time out!"
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Time out!" Chad called, "We're not ready yet.
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We're not ready yet.
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"No time outs!" Tucker shouted and continued to climb down the tires.
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Several more boys spewed out after him.
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Roy!
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Roy!" Chad called, but his voice would only whisper
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He didn't want to be a crybaby, Tucker hated crybabies.
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The rules of the game were that Chad had to keep everyone away from his fort and away from his tumbleweed flag.
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From painful experience, he knew it wasn't going to be as easy as just pretending he was too slow or too weak to do anything.
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Going down too easy would only make him mad, so Chad reached behind him to grab the five stickers he had managed to collect before the start of the game and readied himself.
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The boys came in quick from all sides, knocking Chad down, but he managed to roll to his feet and get one sticker off into a boy's arm before being knocked down again.
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Chad strained and pounded the rock into the iron hole until he could smell the dust.
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Baby!
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Tucker was standing over him with the huge tumbleweed held high in the sun.
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Penis!
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You didn't fight!
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Chad tried to tell his arms to lift him and let him reach for the tumbleweed to prove he wasn't a baby to Tucker.
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Tucker leaned in low and his breath was sour as it blew in Chad's face.
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I'm gonna take the plug out.
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Then Tucker's face became serious.
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From his pocket he pulled a small screwdriver, perfect for prying plugs from boy's heads.
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Now Chad's legs and arms and mouth worked, and he was up and running and screaming, "Roy, go inside! Roy!"
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It smelled like first grade.
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Roy, go inside!
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He sprinted for the corner of the building around which Roy had disappeared.
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The door was on that side and Mrs. Rayburn.
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Just then a horrible pain stung Chad's cheek and neck and ear.
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The tumbleweed's yellow thorned branches scratched around him as it dug into his face.
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