Today, I prayed.
Wait. That’s a lie.

Today, I begged.

It’s been an emotionally rigorous last-couple-weeks during which I’ve found myself pulling an Etch-A-Sketch redo on my mind and my thoughts and my definitions of everything and my agreements and my life and my particular existence and all that. And in the middle of all that upheaval I’m still dealing with my completeandutter feeling of hopeless lack of direction (an obligation for my immediate age, I think) that I’ve been tussling with for months now.

There’s just so many things I feel genuinely driven to do. I want to write a book, I want to sell sugar scrub, I want to make a documentary, I want to go back to school, I want to be a sex therapist, I want to have an op-ed column… All of these things I want to do in the next 10 years and I feel like I have no idea how to go about doing any of them, no particular confidence in my ability to be successful at any of them, (except the sex therapy. I’ve been giving frank, factual advice without blushing since the 6th grade. Ask anyone.) and really no idea which one God/Spirit/Universe is really calling me toward. (Although to be fair, I can always sell the sugar scrub on the side. I hope to open a stand at the local farmers market next season.) Most of the time I feel like one of those delusional “American Idol” contestants who is sitting around dreaming big with no shot of ever becoming anything anywhere close to what they envision. (No, Virginia, not all dreams come true.)

And it’s not for lack of trying to figure it out, either. I’ve meditated and prayed and read Tarot cards as a means for Spirit/God to speak with more clarity (which is usually pretty effective in dealing with everything else) and all sorts of weird rituals and centering practices to get a definite “YES!” on anything.

So today, exhausted from months of frustration on this and many other topics that have only just culminated in a bit of a meltdown and following emotional shutting-down for me, I found myself pleading with God.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve been doing really good here. And I’ve been grateful out the ass for a long time now and I rarely ask for anything for myself anymore. Sure, I ask for my daughter’s health and my husband’s inner peace and sense of self, but I can’t remember the last time I bothered you for anything personal. Not even strength or serenity or any of that. I’ve just kind of had faith that you’d give it to me and when you inevitably have, I’ve thanked you profusely. So right now I’m begging. Please. Please just give me some irrefutable message as to which direction I should go and where I should focus my energies and what sort of plans you have for me and what sort of gifts you’re willing to give me a leg up on because that’s what you made me for. Please tell me how I can best spend my life and my time and the gift of being here. Clearly. Without any room for argument. I’ll do whatever you want for me and whatever you intend and I’ll have confidence that you’ve got a plan here but I just need to know. I want to stop wasting my time running around from interest to compulsion and I want to start doing whatever the hell it is that I’m supposed to be doing right now. And, really, I think that’s what would work best for you and your plans, too. Just. Please.”

I’m not stupid enough to expect anything immediate. These sorts of things take time and I know better than to try to pressure God into anything or strike a deal with him or - as Will Truman put it - try to “punk the Almighty.”

This evening after dinner I found myself sitting on the couch watching the Emmys. I have a million things on my “To Do” list that I’ve been tackling all day and I literally have not watched the Emmys in the last decade or so. Nor have I had any desire to do so, actually. Even still, when Greg decided to go on up to bed, I told him I was interested in watching and couldn’t really provide a reason why (although at the time I was pretty sure it had a lot to do with my deep infatuation with Neil Patrick Harris combined with my desperate admiration and envy for Tina Fey.)

I particularly do not care about any of the shows in the Drama category because when I take refuge from the dramas of real life I don’t want to be bothered with those of fictitious characters. However, I was sitting in rapt attention through all of it, including when they announced the Outstanding Writer Award for a Drama Series. And for some reason I couldn’t stop watching two people I’d never heard of accept an award for a show I’ve never seen in a category I do not give a shit about. (Yes, I considered how mind-numbingly boring and technologically codependent this has made me look.)

And then Matthew Weiner looked dead into the camera and said, “This award makes writing look fun and it isn’t. But I want to say something to all the writers out there for a second.” And then he proceeded to say that it’s backbreaking work that seems impossible but that it’s absolutely worth it to never give up and to keep going for it because writers are all in good company.

You know, your basic “Dreams come true!” speech.

But this time it was from a writer who was actually proud to be a writer instead of some vapid actor who’s totally proud that they won an award for playing pretend. And he addressed those of us who are not only dreaming of it but are busy convincing ourselves that it can’t be done. And it was on a day that I begged for a sign. And nobody in Hollywood EVER talks to or about writers. Especially not low-life, unsuccessful ones.

Sure, it’s naive. Sure it’s a “People will believe what they want to” scenario I’m creating for myself here.

But I’m taking it as the sign I asked for.

And I’m so freaking scared and insecure and uncertain that I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t asked.

Crap.