Monday, May 19, 2014

Dear Daniel Craig

Dear Daniel,

I come to this blog today with burnt skin, a bruised heart, and the gratefulness that comes with having great friends in the writing community as well as friends and family on the inner circle who have rallied to my cause.

I always write with an open heart. Sometimes I’m mad, sometimes I’m happy, sometimes I’m defending others. At five o’clock this morning I found myself in desperate need of defending and a shoulder to cry on after receiving one review from a troll that I was too inexperienced to fight off on my own. I often tell people to take the high road and not feed them.

But this attack seemed to be personal and have nothing to do with the book. It called me ‘A Woman too Fat to Walk’ ‘Ever Self-Promoting’ “Writing unpublishable romances’ ‘On Disability and using my ever Trendy Label of Bipolar Disorder’. That’s all I’m going to share here because really their words don’t bear that much repeating. It seemed like they were out to hurt me.

And some things at five o’clock in the morning are easier to handle than others. People have rallied around me, my parents, Missy, Pam, Mysti, Leona, Stephen Zimmer, my cousin Rebekah and other anonymous helpers who I am forever grateful to.

All I really have to fight off the coming depression is to stand back and damn it, look at how far I’ve come in bipolar struggles.

There were times when something like this would have destroyed me and knocked me way off the path. The road back would have been long, hard, and fraught with peril. I would be sleeping close to fifteen hours a day. I would isolate myself and perhaps turn away from the project completely, never to look at it again.


Am I blue and depressed? Yes. Am I allowing it to stop me? FUCK NO!

As I step back look at what might have happened to me 15 years ago—fail at hygiene. Fail to keep my home clean. Unable to crawl out of bed. Let this rat bastard define who I am and what I’ve become and what this blog turned memoir turned film about possibly.

But this rat bastard is looking at a much different human being with the tools to fight off an asshat like him or her and I refuse to let them define my life for any reason. I've worked too hard. Earned too much. Fought too hard to get back on the road to wellness and balance to let them have a say in what I’m about, let alone this blog/book/film is about and is intended to be.

What I’ve learned is when you are feeling alone and devastated is to allow yourself the sadness and to cry. Reach out immediately to your friends and colleagues. Lean on them for emotional support and cull them for professional advice.

The reality is I make myself vulnerable on this blog. I talk about my life, and my work along with my relationships professional and personal are fair game for me to use. I understand there are consequences to this.

There are going to be people who twist this blog’s content to mean things other than the intended meanings. I can’t stop them. All I can say is this is my emotional truth. This is how I survive day to day.

I AM A PUBLISHED AUTHOR WITH THESE HOUSES: MUSEITUP, HYDRA, BLACKWYRM, & HEKATE. And I recently ventured out into the world of self-publishing under the banner of HEALING HANDS ENTERTAINMENT.

Yes my work has romance, but there are other genres represented. SciFi, Fantasy, Dystopian, and Thrillers. I also co-write screenplays, television treatments, and pilots.

I’ve won awards, been a bestseller many times over. IF YOU ARE GOING TO BE STUPID ENOUGH TO ATTACK ME GET YOUR FACTS STRAIGHT.

The thing I’m most proud of, Letters to Daniel, and what it’s grown into, now a documentary being featured at Imaginarium and Film-Com which me, and the two other producers on it, will be attending.

When I was drowning in Texas and a shitty mental health care system, it was Missy who saw fit to stand by me through the worst of it down there. When I got back to Kentucky Pam joined the team. I owe so much to them.

So, anonymous troll and hater, you wanna take me on? Think the fuck again. Because you aren’t fit to lick the bottom of my shoes.


Amy McCorkle

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