The following is a discussion of the things that I thought would help me finish my novel but have not. Included as well are my plans for those things.

The Thing: My Beard.
I thought for sure that growing a beard would help me finish my novel. The sad fact of the matter is that, if anything, my beard has gotten in the way of me finishing my novel. Long story short: one time I ended up getting the hair from my beard caught in my typewriter and the great lengths to which I had to go to remove my beard from the typewriter also caused me to destroy the page that I was working on.

Beyond that one specific incident, I find that my beard-area itches quite often, making it nearly impossible for me to pay attention to my writing.

I've seen so many young men in bars and in coffeehouses, in the corner, alone, bearded, working on novels. These men inspired me. It seemed that their beards were creating for them a sort of energy—a bohemian joie de hair, if you will.

Such has not been my experience. I have only written four pages since I adopted the beard last fall, leading me to the obvious conclusion that my beard is not helping me finish my novel and that it is officially a hindrance.

My Plan: Shave It.
Not only is this the conventional way to rid oneself of an unwanted beard, but it is also the safest way. Therefore, my plan is laid out as follows: tomorrow morning, after my shower, I will apply shaving cream to my beard-area, followed by a razor. The razor will remove the beard with lightning efficiency and restore me to my once younger- and cleaner-looking and more prolific self.

The Thing: My Jack Russell Terrier
I thought for sure that a little non-human companionship and loyalty would inspire me to finish my novel. Experiencing this new and unconditional love relationship, I figured, would make me more attune to the wonderful and uplifting spirit of goodness and truth that comprises all.

Long story short: it hasn't. The only thing that Jack Russell (my Jack Russell Terrier) has done for me is to make me smell like a dog, which is how he smells. There're short white stiff Jack Russell hairs everywhere in my apartment and J.R. seems totally unwilling to learn how to use the litter box that I purchased for him.

Rather than spending my free time working on my novel, like I should be, I spend most of my free time grooming my beard and picking dog poop up around my apartment. Picking up dog poop is neither inspirational nor productive, making it completely inconsistent with my suspicion that owning a Jack Russell Terrier would help me finish my novel.

Additionally, I find myself terribly allergic to dogs, which means that I would not be able to work on my novel even if I lived in a dogshit free apartment, because I'd be sneezing my head off the entire time.