Dear God: A Prayer

God, I cry out to you. I don't know why I can't accept more of your help. I don't know if it's my trust issues or my inability to hear your voice. I try every day to write a little more but nothing gets done. I babble for hours and I don't work on the stuff I want to work on. I sit here, alone and I wonder about other writers. How does Brandon Sanderson write four thousand words a day when I can barely write a thousand? How can Stephen King write six pages when I can barely type one. I like writing better when it wasn't so exhausting. I don't know what I'm preparing for but I know what I want: Perfection. I torture myself daily with my inner critic lashing me until I can't think straight. I can't quiet him with my performance or my effort. Instead I wallow in pitty. I'm old God. I know others say I'm not but I'd probably have a different look at life if I was ten or twenty years younger doing this. No one notices me or the pain and tears I put into writing this. When will I get my head straight? I think of ideas but I can't put them together. My method of working is backwards and I hate it. I want to write more to satisfy the desires of my heart. Don't you know the plans you have for me? Don't you wish to grant the desires of my heart? Change the situation God, or change me. I'm tired of gradual steps, I need to make leaps or I'll fall behind. I'm already behind. My highschool friends have relationships, my college friends have careers. I'm stuck doing nothing in a job with elderly. I like it but it's not my destirny. It's not what I want, it's a job I tolerate. When will I be happy?

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