LOSS FOR WORDS

Dear Spike's Friends:

A lot of you have e-mailed to ask about Cuba. At the moment, I'm still at a loss for words to describe the geopolitical pit of poppycock that Fidel Castro, in cooperation with every American President since JFK, has managed to make of such a beautiful country — one with such enormous economic promise.

I'm working on several articles about Cuba which I'll link to at dearspike.com when (if?) they are published. Among my subjects: The resurrection of Cuba's sex trade; the explosive growth of protestant churches in Havana's poorest quarters; life in the long, dark shadow of the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay; and the precarious return trips being made by Cuban exiles.

In the meantime, I've posted a slideshow of photos of the trip on YouTube. You can watch it here.



Thanks for all of your kind words in the wake of the burglary, during my time away, and while I've been recovering from my nasty case of Fidel's Flu. As always, you can reach me at dearspike+at+gmail+dot+com

Love,
spike's dad

p.s. — Yes, I'm still planning on posting the letters from the Dear Spike project here. Stay tuned.

OF BLUSTERY DAYS

Dear Spike:

I'm taking this week and the next off to spend time with you before your first birthday, and hopefully to finish the book I started writing for you before Christmas.

It was supposed to be sunny this week. And I was looking forward to spending most of my vacation with you outside, working in the yard, walking in the park and hiking in the canyons. So far, though, it has been a series of blustery days. And so we sit, by the window, watching wave after wave of thick, gray clouds roll overhead.

This isn't prohibitive, of course. When your mother and I lived in Oregon we never let a gray day disturb our plans (lest we do nothing at all!) And likewise, this afternoon, rain or shine, you and I will venture out for a hike.

Still, I am hoping for a warm and sunny day. The better to see the spring flowers on the hillside. The better to inspire me for when we do return indoors and I write as you sleep.

And as you sleep, the better to inspire your dreams.

Love,
dad

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