Dear Daniel

Dear Daniel,

Ever daydream about the simple things in life? I mean, I’ve never been one to get to caught up in delusions of grandeur, but at 38 I’ve never owned a car. It would be nice to own a car. Nothing fancy. Just one that I owned straight out. And a house. One that I own with a finished basement incase of tornadoes. Sump pump in case of floods. Built to withstand earthquakes and tsunamis. Can you tell I have serious issues when it comes to weather?

E

nough money to pay off my debt, keep myself fed, stay out of debt, and just do what I want for a living for the rest of my life and get paid for it. To keep my hard one and fought victory over bipolar disorder. To have the strength to ride the wave when the bottom falls out and I need to be given a little TLC as opposed to screaming and yelling.

To be taken seriously. To be respected. To be understood. To be loved. And maybe not necessarily in that order. To have people with me who can be happy for me and for me to be happy for them. And when people I respect and admire succeed I feel like, hey, I can do that too.

But here’s the fact. I don’t need the insanity of stardom. I like being able to write about what I want when I want and even though I dream of awards for my work and being well compensated for it and meeting my heroes. I want to have the core group of people around me who will know when to call me on my bullshit.

Even if it makes me mad. Even if it hurts my pride. As long as it’s coming from someone who knows me to the core and will keep me from running off into the abyss, I’m willing to take it in the chin. Because everyone needs that one person in your life that will tell what’s what. To keep you humble. Mind you NOT to put you down or demoralize you and chip away at your self-confidence. Honestly, I have too many of those in my life now as we speak.

Right now I am not making it rain dollars and cents. The largest royalty check I have ever received is 36 dollars. But I am content in the publishing world to do things a certain way. My career for the last three years has been this crazy ride upward. And I know creatively I am at my peak behind a computer after reading something inspiring or watching a movie.

Now for Christmas I got six books. It has been nine years since I read any book, and before that five years before. So I decided to ask for books for Christmas. I write paranormal and urban fastasy and dystopian so I asked for the right stuff. Sherrilyn Kenyon. Veronica Roth. And JR Ward.

My spirit animal is Kevin Smith and his gift of storytelling. Funny, sweet, and sour at times, he is self-deprecating and cheers everyone on to pursue their passion their bliss while proudly pursuing his brand of his.

In many respects people look at me and I’m living the dream. Published author. Bestselling author. Award winning author. Award winning screenwriter. Award winning blogger. Mentoring writers. A sliver of a chance at a television series. Based on a series I’m loving to write.

But here’s the underlying reality. I got a late start writing. Perhaps even later than I wanted. Living in a house as an adult with parents who dismiss you and your feelings out of hand is hard. You find yourself on that nasty rollercoaster. Sometimes things are good. But more times than not they are rocky and so I hide in my room and I write.

Missy has it good at her mom’s. But here’s the deal. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out in this situation. I’m banking a lot on the Nashville Film Festival and their screenwriting competition. And possibly meeting some people there who can help us take our career to the next level. And to do that I have to stay in this house another 7 months. Which honestly seems like it could be disastrous. They break my heart every day.

I wish this wasn’t the case. But they do. Of course, they’re my parents. What am I going to do? When I let something blow over mom always manages to needle me with it hours later. As if I’m the bad guy. So for now I put my head down, put my blinders on and write my fucking way out this one Joan Wilder.

Sincerely,

Amy McCorkle