FAR MORE ENDURING

Dear Spike:

You signed your first book the other day.

Well, scribbled, more or less.

It's been about a week now since "Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy)" was released — with a letter to you as Chapter Three. It was a nice treat to see my writing, which usually ends up in the recycling bin, between hard covers for a change — though it occurs to me that it quite possibly was the last time, too.

I don't think Gutenberg's Revolution is over quite yet, but I have a hard time believing we'll still be killing trees to make books when you're my age. Same goes for paper newspapers, which I doubt will be around much longer than the next decade.

I suppose I should be worried — I pay my share of our family's mortgage with my newspaper paycheck. But I've got this silly notion that the written word is far more enduring than whatever fleeting substance it happens to be superimposed upon. I mean, really, when was the last time anyone tried to write a novel on the walls of a cave? You know what I mean?

By whatever the means, I do hope you'll write. For yourself, if you wish. And for others, if you dare.

To that end, a warning: Not everyone is going to appreciate what you write. Some people will try their best to let you know that in a kind and supportive way. Some people won't.

Some people will be as mean and nasty as they possibly can. These people are called assholes.

As in many things in life, you'll have to have a thick skin. The truth is that most great writers aren't appreciated as such until they've long been gone from this world.

And since there's no way to know how history will remember you, you might as well assume you're one of the greats.

Love,
dad