Tag: pray

Day 46 Reflection: Faith

I struggle with faith. This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in a higher power or that I’m shopping for religion. It simply means that I question my notions of God.

For much of my life, I believed in God as a celestial Santa Claus. I would pray for something I wanted or needed, hoping God would grant me that. Nothing selfish, like a dollhouse or a bike, but things like praying for my mother not to have cancer or praying to win the spelling bee or, on a few really bad days, praying that I didn’t exist. God obviously didn’t grant all my wishes — I didn’t win the spelling bee and I still exist.

Some people told me that God knew what I needed better than I did. This logic worked when a bad relationship broke up and I only found out its fatal flaws in retrospect. I couldn’t accept that, however, when I reflected on the abuse I suffered in childhood. Did God want that to happen? Why didn’t He stop it when I prayed?

My friend Mariellen, a Quaker like me, opened my eyes to a healthier faith in God. She said that every night, she prayed for God to remove her burdens, and every morning she woke up with the same burdens, but with more strength to deal with them.

It makes sense. If people have a personal relationship with deity, then the way that deity acts in their lives will be personal. God doesn’t meddle; the potential of humankind can’t be realized with a meddling God. But I believe God lends strength and courage so we can be our most authentic, most powerful selves in the face of adversities large and small.

I can live with that God.

Day 6 Reflection Part 2: My struggle

I may be moving away from writing. Or at least writing novels.

I just haven’t felt it lately. The thrill of writing hasn’t been there since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains in December. I haven’t started a novel since then; now I have struggled with proofreading/editing the last of my backlog of novels before developmental edit. 
 
The fantasy of getting published has pretty much died. I don’t know if the average of 250 readers per self-published novel is worth $500 in developmental edit fees and sixty to 100 extra hours of work per novel. I don’t know if I could even get that many readers.  I’m wary of the pitfalls the vulnerable writer can fall into: vanity presses and publishing mills, and will not consider those as choices.

The thing that really worries me is that, when I say “I could quit,” I often don’t feel a thing. No cheer, no relief, no regret, almost like I hadn’t spent five years, countless hours, $2000 and an investment of identity into writing novels and trying to get published.
 
I don’t feel bad about quitting until I write this out: I might quit my quest to be published. When I say that, I feel the death rattle of a dream, but at the same time I wonder if that dream of being published, being read is unreasonable, unworkable, pie-in-the-sky. I wonder if there are more reasonable things to dream about.

This is my struggle. Pray for me, or wish me luck, or whatever you feel moved to do.