There Are No Saints Here

A “tough love” open letter to a disgruntled wannabe

I’m sorry that you’ve been sold a pack of lies. It’s not the lies you think you bought, though. To say that I “never started writing for the money” means that I started writing in fifth grade. I sat by the lakeside, on the trunk of a fallen tree, with a notebook on my lap, a pen in my right hand, and my dog leashed on my left wrist. She patiently watched the birds…