Writing Prayer Honestly

D. Vincent Delorenzo

So today, we’re diving into this tricky thing—writing prayer, or really any devotional work, in a way that actually feels honest. Not, you know... not just a set of fancy words that tick all the right boxes, but something a real person could sit with. Clara, have you noticed how a lot of devotional writing just feels like—like someone’s performing?

Clara Wren

Oh, definitely. It’s like, there’s a script that everyone thinks they’re supposed to follow. All the “gracious heavenly Father” and “we beseech Thee” kind of stuff. I mean, that’s not how most of us talk, even when we’re exhausted or desperate. There’s just this sense that if you don’t sound holy enough, you’re mucking it up. It never sat right with me. In fact—oh, I’ll admit it—I tried to write a group prayer at youth camp once, and it came out just… I don’t know, almost plastic, too safe. I was trying to sound like what I thought a prayer should be, and it felt wrong immediately. Like I was acting.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Right. I get that. I think a lot of devotional writing, whether it’s journal entries or the stuff you read at the back of church pamphlets, it slips into what I’d call “performed belief.” It’s written for an invisible audience, not any one person, and certainly not from a place of uncertainty or… fatigue. Readers can pick up on that quickly. There’s this instinct, I think, for people to sense when someone’s writing out of duty—just checking boxes—or out of real struggle.

Clara Wren

That’s so true. You can feel when someone’s hedging, like there’s a wall up. It’s not actually sharing faith or doubt, it’s just repeating someone else’s lines. I suppose it’s comforting for some, but for me, I remember sitting there after I read what I’d written out loud, thinking, “Who are you even talking to, Clara?”

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, and I wish more writers—especially in devotional spaces—would drop the pressure to prove belief and just speak out of whatever’s true in the moment. The need to impress or persuade kind of kills all the humanity, doesn’t it?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

So, that actually brings us to the question of: well, what makes a prayer feel honest? And what do you do instead of performing? Over the years, I’ve gathered some rules for myself—guides, really—when I’m writing anything like this. First up: I try to write for one tired person, not for a crowd. It helps to picture a friend who’s, I don’t know, run ragged by grief or confusion, and just talk to them. Not a stadium full of imagined critics.

Clara Wren

I love that. It actually makes the whole thing gentler, doesn’t it? Like, softer language just comes. And the next bit—letting doubt remain? That’s tough. There’s always that urge to… tidy up. Like, wrap everything in a bow, so it sounds certain and safe. But I guess real prayers aren’t always neat.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Absolutely. Sometimes the most powerful line you can write is just, “I don’t know.” Or even, “Help.” And you have to resist the urge to layer on, you know, elevated or “holy” language before you really need it. I catch myself trying to sound profound and realize—wait, who’s this for? An editor? A panel of angels taking notes?

Clara Wren

That’s exactly it. I mean, sometimes the hardest thing is just stopping before you’ve gone too far. I always want to explain more, justify, but usually that just pushes it straight back into performance. Let it end a little early—leave the door cracked.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Totally. I remember, actually, there was this personal prayer scene I rewrote at least four times. At first, it was basically a sermon dressed as a letter. I stripped it back—cut every line that felt like a speech. What was left? Just “I’m scared. Tell me what to do next.” It was plain, but it was the only part that felt true. So, yeah—write for a tired friend, let doubts stand, skip “holiness” language unless it’s the only honest word, and resist wrapping things up.

Clara Wren

And that balance—honesty and reverence—do you think it’s possible for doubt to live alongside respect? I feel like that’s the core tension, for a lot of people.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I think it has to. Sometimes the most respectful thing is to admit you barely know how to ask for help, or that you’re lost in the dark. It’s not irreverence—it’s relationship. Trusting that it’s okay to bring your half-words. It’s the difference between talking at someone versus talking to them.

Clara Wren

Okay, so we’ve talked about the writing part… but I’m always curious about editing. It’s so easy to fall back into performance without noticing. What do you do, Vincent, when you’re trying to keep what you’ve written honest during revision?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Editing is where sincerity really gets tested. My not-so-secret rule: I take the draft and read it out loud—as if I’m speaking to a friend in a room with no microphones, no one eavesdropping. If there’s anything I wouldn’t actually say to someone I trust—especially stuff that sounds, uh, “too holy” or rehearsed—I cut it. Mercilessly.

Clara Wren

That’s brilliant. Mind if we do a quick demo? Let’s say you’ve written, “O Lord, shelter us under Thy mighty hand and grant illumination to our troubled hearts in this grievous hour.” I mean, it’s nice… but would you say it, really?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Ha! No, not unless I’m moonlighting as a medieval monk. I’d shift it to something more like, “Help us. We’re scared. Please show us what to do.” Still a prayer, just… spoken. If it feels stiff in my mouth, it doesn’t belong on the page. It’s about being direct, not dumbing down, just honest.

Clara Wren

So I guess a good question for any writer is: “Would I actually say this if no one else was listening?” It’s a bit confronting, but that test, reading it out loud, seems really helpful.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, and another little tip—ask yourself, “Is this a performance, or a conversation?” Sincerity shows up in the rough bits. Pauses, hesitations, the places where you want to apologize or not quite know. That’s where the real prayer leaks through. And you learn to spot your own patterns, the places you slip into performance. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Clara Wren

And that’s the quiet magic of writing honestly, isn’t it? Trusting the simple words, letting the work breathe. Well, Vincent, thank you for keeping it real again. To everyone listening—write quietly, let doubt be a guest, and trust the rough edges. We’ll be back next episode to keep the lantern lit.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Thanks, Clara. Take care, everyone—keep writing, and we’ll meet you again around the firelight. Goodnight and Merry Christmas!.