I pray nobody knows.

This is my third attempt.

I first started with a podcast. It’s good for SEO. Maybe people would like the sound of my voice and hypontically end up on my site, books in their checkout basket before knowing what hit them.

Or maybe I’d try YouTube. Throw on a little concelear so all the years I’ve tried and failed would be a little less noticeable under my eyes and give them seventy-two free ways to publish a book.

Or maybe I could write this post and be honest like always even though I hear honesty is never really en vogue.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

There.

I pray to God all the time, but I also have a sick feeling that prayer is only as good as the person who prays it.

I am not good. I am barely so-so.

Scripturally, I know better. But humanly, I don’t. I feel the human edge to all of this, the twenty million ways I can say everything I do is for God and truly believe it, only to realize I’ve made an idol for myself.

I want people to buy my books. And I sometimes feel deep shame in that.

I’m not sure why. It’s a hard puzzle to crack. I’m tired of doing for the sake of doing and pretending that all these little efforts will somehow be the key to success.

But can I even define that? And is it even mine to define?

I guess what I can do is what is most comfortable. That’s to write to nobody and pray that nobody reads these words. That maybe there’s a book I’ve written, a story I’ve told that nobody wants and nobody will buy it and read it and learn a little more about how God calls a human heart and coaxes it out even when it’s lodged so deep within them, the whole world has had a terrible time trying to dig it out.

I pray nobody knows what I’ve been trying to say from the very start.

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