Is Therapy the Only Path to Normal?

I was doing a reading and book club at a library when someone asked, “have you had a lot of therapy, because you seem really normal?”

It’s a loaded question and I hesitated to answer. For many, therapy is life and soul saving. For most of my life, therapy was not an option, a combination of my father’s view that it’s for crazy and weak people and that the cost is prohibitive. For me, therapy was synonymous with shame.

There was a time in high school when my brother got in trouble with the police for breaking into a police compound to steal car radios. The police said he was the look out, but knowing my brother, I think he just happened to be hanging out with his idiot friends who were the master minds of the attempted stealing. I don’t know for sure. The details were never openly discussed the night he came home from jail or in the weeks that followed. My father said my brother could leave home and change his name or stay, but home would be like prison. I suggested to my father that we should go to a family counselor. I mean, wasn’t this clearly one more of my brother’s cries for help? My father grimaced in disgust at my suggestion. I was disappointed, for my brother’s sake, but also for mine as by that point our family dynamics were killing me too. I just coped in different ways from my brother.

As counseling wasn’t an option, I turned to books for my answers. I still maintain that reading is one of the best ways of understanding and healing from childhood trauma. I journaled a lot, until my step mother started reading my private thoughts, no matter where I hid my diary. In college, when my father first told me not to come home again, I turned to a priest. He certainly helped me be strong and to choose love over hate, but he didn’t have the expertise in diagnosing our family dysfunction. I resumed writing in my journal, to unleash my anger, my pain, and to understand. When I look back on decades of journals, I see where I have progressed and where I have not.

Becoming a mother resurfaced a number of my own childhood traumas and fears that I would repeat my father’s failures with my own children. I sensed I needed help. The final straw was the prospect of our moving back to DC, my father’s town. I was working on my MBA at the time so I went to the student health center. Free therapy! But you get what you pay for. This therapist, who was probably a student himself, thought my coping techniques must be fine. I was an A student, a reliable mother, so I must be doing okay, right? No matter that I was dying inside. No matter that as my logic went, if my father and sister were happier without me, maybe my children and husband would be better off without me too. We had a few sessions, then I gave up. I tried a therapist who was covered by my husband’s insurance plan, all the time fearing the repercussions of this; a friend told me never to use insurance lest a future employer use it against me. (Is this a valid fear? I’d really like to know.) She was slightly better than the campus therapist, but it irked me that she ate lunch while I talked. With a baby, a toddler, and school schedule, the time invested with this therapist didn’t seem worth the scheduling effort. As life would have it, we didn’t move to DC and moved to Michigan instead, my immediate crisis averted.

So it was only when my father died on Christmas Eve, suddenly and unexpectedly, that I knew books alone could not save me from that degree of trauma. I asked friends – discreetly – for recommendations. The most recommended therapist did not take insurance. So this is the other issue with therapy: who can afford it? I gave her a budget of six sessions. She was awesome. She helped me heal, changed my thinking, and diagnosed my father as having Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I have since devoured four books on the topic. It’s not that my work was done in six sessions (that I did up to eight); it’s that she pointed me in the right direction.

I do think therapy can be wonderful with a good therapist and with hard work. But how does one know who are the good therapists? It can be dangerous to pick at wounds without a clear way to close them back up again. I have had some therapist friends of mine comment on patients who don’t want to do the hard work. Should someone really be in therapy for years? Maybe. Extreme mental illness, of course. But when therapy is a superficial crutch, I liken it to going to the doctor for a heart issue; he or she tells you to cut back on butter and to exercise more. You don’t. But you keep going back to hear the same advice, over and over again.

So I wish people used more than just therapy in their journeys to understand and heal. Reading and writing are gifts we all have. They’re affordable, too. I didn’t have the idyllic childhood that makes me “normal.” Instead, I’ve been blessed to have others in my life that have shown me what normal is. Ironically, it’s my father that gave me an unrelenting determination, the difference in that I’ve directed on continuing to heal.



The beach always soothes my soul. This one in Barbados.


George Michael’s Legacy: More Than The Sports Machine


The George Michael Sports Machine went off the air ten years ago this March, after a nearly 30-year run. George Michael’s legacy lives on via the many ESPN sportscasters he mentored, including Lindsay Czarniak and Michael Wilbon. He also had a recent cameo appearance in the hit spy show The Americans, which takes place in Washington DC in the 1980s when the The Sports Machine first launched. Michael’s interviews inspired several movies including The Rookie and Tin Cup.

But few know the personal story of George Michael himself, his rise to fame and the impact that fame had on his family. My father did not trust journalists, particularly after one harsh article in The Washington Post just as he was transitioning from disc jockey to sportscaster. He created a public persona and only revealed the parts of his personal life that helped boost that image. To an extent, all famous people have to do this, and yet, I think people would have found his true back story so much more inspiring.

Here are five things you may not have known about my father, George Michael, some of which are in my memoir, The Sportscaster’s Daughter, some are not:

  1. He Failed Before He Succeeded

My father was a rock ‘n roll disc jockey in New York before he became Washington, DC’s most revered sportscaster. At the height of his disc jockey career, he was rated the top disc jockey in the country by Billboard magazine. In November, 1979, he was fired from WABC. Ironically, it was on his first wedding anniversary to my stepmother, and the surprise party I had planned for them that night was not as festive as I had hoped. My father tried to hold back tears that night as he said, “I’ll never make this kind of money again.” When you are at the top in the biggest media market in the country, the only place to go is down. This was the same year he was being considered as a host for the Olympics, the Miracle on Ice game my father did not get to announce. At one point, his best prospects looked to be announcing the Islanders hockey games in winter and the Mets in spring, an even tougher travel schedule than he already had. Fortunately, he started as the sports director at WRC-TV in DC that April, five months after getting fired from WABC.

It was a difficult year for our family, but clearly, my father reached new heights in his career. I have always told my children to dream big dreams, and to work them from every angle, because that’s exactly what my father did.  His first sports rejection came shortly after he graduated college when he did not get his dream job of announcing Cardinal’s baseball games, his beloved hometown team. So ultimately, it took him another 20 years to achieve his next dream job.

  1. His Aunt Was a Pioneer in TV

My dad was a pioneer in sports broadcasting, creating his show in 1980 with video highlights from around the country. Sports highlights are the norm today, with people streaming content from phones and TVs. But in the 1980s, few people had cable or satellite dishes. The video highlights from sports teams around the country were one-of-a-kind. Some say he inspired ESPN Sports Center, and for sure, many reporters trained under my father. But he was not the only pioneer in our family. His Aunt Alice had her own cooking show on ABC in the 1960s, known to viewers as Nancy Craig.

  1. He Didn’t Grow Up Poor

After my father died, a reporter asked me a lot of questions that I had never before contemplated:  did he really grow up poor? Did he or didn’t he play soccer in college? These were some of the stories that he apparently had told as part of his public image. As a child, I had never heard him talk about growing up poor. As for soccer, I remember going to some of his neighborhood games when I was a child, and even recall his last game, when he injured his leg and was carted off in an ambulance. But all that was before his college days. After my father died, I journeyed to St. Louis to find out the truth. I visited his childhood home, that, by today’s standards, I would describe as middle class or even upper middle class.  He didn’t grow up rich, but he most certainly didn’t grow up poor. As for his soccer, it seems he played some in high school, but never in college.

I wonder why he needed to paint this image of having grown up “on the wrong side of the tracks.” For sure, he was the first in his family to go to college, and to me, that is enough of a success story. His father was a butcher and owned a small grocery story, passing on a work ethic that influenced my father and me.

  1. He Never Healed Family Rifts

My grandfather, Pop, had four wives. I have heard that my grandmother —my father’s mother—was a cold-hearted woman and a perfectionist. Dad was the baby of the family and his mother’s favorite. When my father was five year’s old, Pop disowned  his oldest daughter, my father’s half-sister, for getting pregnant out of wedlock. Although Pop and his daughter reconciled before his death, my father never spoke to that sister again nor had any contact with her.

When my father died, he hadn’t spoken to me in nearly twenty years, repeating a painful family pattern. Our first estrangement began when I was in college, when in a burst of anger my father told me never to come home again. We reconciled for a period, but my father stopped speaking to me again when I moved to Switzerland, to marry my high school sweetheart, a man my father adored. I still can’t say for sure why this hurt him to the point that he refused to talk to me. He never explained things, and here, I can only speculate that it goes back to his own traumatic childhood. I also think his rising fame made his narcissism worse. It was “his way or the highway.”

  1. He Was the First to Interview Priscilla Presley After Elvis Died

This past Christmas was a strange one, with George Michael the pop star dying unexpectedly Christmas day, seven years after my father died unexpectedly Christmas Eve. It was hard to read tributes to a different George Michael at a time of year I mourn my father’s loss more intensely.  There are several tributes planned for the pop singer, and it reminds me of the tributes my father did for Elvis.  He did a makeshift tribute the day Elvis died that people can still hear online ( My father knew the details of Elvis’s career like no other disc jockey or fan. But my father wanted the human side of Elvis, the back story, and for that, he needed Priscilla Presley. Initially, she had refused to talk to the press. I still recall my father’s phone call to her in 1977. I was in the kitchen, probably coloring or writing poems as I did in those days, as he said to Priscilla, “You owe it to your daughter. She’ll want to know about her father.”  On the one year anniversary of Elvis’s death, my father’s multi-hour tribute aired around the country, with dozens of interviews from Elvis’s friends, co-workers, and Priscilla. People in the industry thought such a long radio tribute would never succeed, but it did, kind of like the syndicated Sports Machine that had also been met with skepticism. Priscilla, like so many sports celebrities after, trusted my father. He was exceptional in his ability to reveal their human side and unearth their stories. I wish somebody could have done the same for my father.

Cindi Michael is the author of The Sportscaster’s Daughter, selected by Redbook Magazine as one of the best books of 2016.

You Never Forget Your First

They say you never forget your first. No, not that first! I mean your first big book event!

It was exciting and humbling to participate in a panel of local memoirists at the iconic RJ Julia bookstore in Madison, CT earlier this month. RJ Julia is a dying breed – an independent book store that draws big name writers while also supporting new writers. I had been to RJ Julia while visiting my lifelong friend, Donna (she’s in my book) who lives in Madison. We even went to a reading by one of my favorite authors, Jodi Picoult. Jodi drew such a crowd, they had to move the event to the local high school. This bookstore is hallowed ground.


Our event was much more humble but equally inspiring. I was joined by my fellow She Writes Press author, Roni Beth Tower, author of Miracle at Midlife: A Transatlantic Romance. Who doesn’t love a good romance? I chuckled as she read a scene from her book, her first date with her husband. Her husband attended the event – oh the support! – and didn’t so much as blush as Roni read that flirtatious scene. Sherry Horton shared Witness Chair: A Memoir of Art, Marriage, and Loss as her husband battled cancer. Hearing Sherry read her words, I thought, “what beautiful writing,” so it made sense to learn that she is a writing teacher. Shawn Elizabeth George spoke about yoga and religion from her memoir My Journey to Live from the Inside Out.

I read a scene from The Sportscaster’s Daughter, the chapter “Escape Night.” It’s a tough scene, a scary scene when my brother, sister and I try to run away in the middle of the night after our mother goes bezerk. We don’t run away that night, but our father does get sole custody of us the following weekend. People at the event said the reading was riveting. I have sometimes cried when having to do a reading in writers’ workshops, reliving so much of the pain of the past. The only cure to this is to practice. Practice, practice, practice. Authors have to try for that out of body experience. I had to keep telling myself: “It’s not me now; it’s the child version of me.” My voice still trembled, equal parts the vivid memory and a brewing cold (the first cold all winter, less than ideal timing!). I also greatly appreciated a tip from another writer: make your reading an excerpt, specifically edited for a live reading, adding context, and deleting parts that would have required someone to have read the previous chapters.


Some other things I learned from my fellow writers: bring some props. Sherry had an art theme and brought some things her husband had made. As I have a book club event at Oakland Library next week, I am contemplating playing one of my father’s old radio airchecks. But then, at RJ Julia, only a few people had even ever heard of George Michael. This has been my book’s duality: many are drawn to it because of the universal themes of family and self-esteem, some because of my father’s fame.

Other tips for my fellow writers:

  • Be prepared for the hard questions. One person asked, who do I now think is more of a monster-my father or my mother. My answer: neither. Another asked: are my brother, sister, and I still close, because that is how “The Escape” chapter ends; our father tells us we have to stick together. The answer to that is the long, sad story of my book.
  • Thank your hosts: Book stores rarely sell enough books at an event to justify the costs of hosting them. It is as much a labor of love for them as it is for us writers.
  • Remember the big picture: Your event may not be a sell out. If you have just one good interaction, be grateful for this. There is also the long tail of the associated promotion of the event, whether in papers, social media, the store’s newsletter and website.

I have another first this week: a reading and book club discussion at a library. This is not just any library, it’s the Oakland Public Library. Oakland is the town of my childhood when my dad first got custody of us, where the chapter The Golden Years takes place. I fully expect to be emotional. I can only hope also to be inspirational.


Birthdays: A Hard Day to Be Estranged

It was my birthday this week. Birthdays are often a time of joyous celebration, a look back on the highs and lows of the last year, and anticipation of things to come in the next year. But if you are estranged from a family member, a birthday can be a difficult day, marking another year of an unresolved rift.

In high school, my birthday was always a moody day for me. It falls during the busy football season, leading up to Super Bowl. My father, George Michael, was just getting started as a sportscaster in Washington, DC, so he was either away or too busy to celebrate it in January. We usually celebrated my birthday in late March, jointly with my father’s birthday. In those days, it was my friends who made my birthday special, with a surprise cake, or one year, by filling my locker with balloons.

Later, after my father disowned me, I downright dreaded my birthday. New friends, who knew nothing about my family circumstances, thought my birthday angst had more to do with my age. It didn’t. It marked another year he didn’t want me in his life. It was the one day of the year I could not resist Googling my father’s name to see how he was doing. Or more painful, perhaps, watching one of his shows on YouTube.

And yet, it was this annual habit of mine that gave me hope. It was January of 2008 when I stumbled across a story in Washingtonian magazine in which my father mentioned me by name, Cindi spelled correctly with an i at the end. He was recalling his wedding day, his second marriage, when my sister and I were maids of honor. My father had recently retired and this mention seemed to reinforce my belief that much of our rift was caused by my father’s fame – that once he slowed down, he would realize all he was missing out on as a father and grand father. I didn’t know then that my father was battling cancer. Neither of us knew that he would die within two years, too late for a reconciliation in this lifetime.

He’s been gone seven years now. There is no new news about him to torture myself with. At most, I might see a reference to how he shaped the career of another sportscaster. This year, I stumbled across a few tweets about him, people reminiscing about how innovative his show was at the time. I don’t even know why I searched on twitter this year – maybe it was because the Packer’s game was more painful to watch. In an odd way, these new mentions comfort me as I am glad other people still remember him.

I no longer have to lament that we didn’t reconcile in the last year: he’s gone, he couldn’t. So my birthday is a little less painful. And my present family always knocks themselves out to make it special. This year, we went to see Carole King’s Beautiful on Broadway, the music moving and inspiring. And there’s cake, always made with love when the kids are home, or when not, bought with love as my husband doesn’t risk that undertaking on his own. Whip up a Beef Wellington, any day. Bake a cake, no way.


Where I Write: Planes, Trains, and Poolside


A few years ago, we were visiting Key West and I got to see where Hemingway wrote. It’s a cozy room, separate from the main house. A place of solitude and creativity. I wish I could say I wrote in an equally inspiring place, but instead, much of my writing is done on planes, trains, and poolside. If I waited to write until I was in more conducive surroundings, I would never write. If you have a New Year’s resolution to write more in 2017, that means writing whenever and wherever you can.

Hemingway’s Writing Room – Key West

I started my memoir, The Sportscaster’s Daughter, in 2009 with a New Year’s resolution to make more time for creative writing. I had made—and broken—this resolution before. My day job as a big data expert also demands writing, but of the technical kind, leaving little time or inspiration for the creative kind. By the end of 2009, I had a grand total of two chapters. Then, on Christmas Eve, my father, George Michael, died, suddenly and unexpectedly. He died without saying goodbye, not having spoken to me in years. I had been assuming our reconciliation was nearing both because my father had mentioned me by name in a recent interview and because he had just retired. I had long assumed that my father would only come to his senses and have time for reflection when he slowed down. I was wrong, devastatingly wrong. Or I was right, and my father ran out of time.  Writing helped me cope with the shock of it all. It helped me grieve and allowed me to spend time with him, reliving our happier times.  That year, Fridays became my designated writing and grieving day. On those Fridays, I tried to write from the sofa of my living room, gazing out at the Kittatinny Mountains of New Jersey. For sure, I could not write emotionally traumatic scenes at my desk with three computers beeping at me.

My day job also means I often travel to conferences and clients across the country. If I am traveling on a Sunday, I have the choice of curling up with a good book on the plane, or buckling down and writing.  A six-hour flight is a longer stretch of writing than I could ever carve out at home. I wrote the scene when my dad first told me never to come home again during a layover at Denver airport. In way, it was better I was not home that night to tuck my children in bed. I needed to be alone in a hotel with that painful memory, not wanting the past to contaminate my idyllic present.

As a swim team mom, I often took my daughter to swim practice at 7 a.m., Saturday mornings, a 45-minute drive each way. Parents weren’t allowed on deck to watch practices, so this became another window of opportunity to write. I’d drive to the local Starbucks, then return with my coffee and climb into the back seat of the minivan to write for an hour. For her swim meets, I often officiated, but for weekend invitationals, I would only work the meet one of the days.  On my off day, I would sit in the corridor between races, writing on the iPad. It’s distracting, yes, as there are dozens of parents to chat with, going back on deck to cheer for friends, and watching the clock to be sure I didn’t miss her next race.  And yet, for a half hour here and there, I would transport myself back to the 1980s to a first love, flirtatious banter, and a man who introduced me to country music, me the daughter of a rock ‘n’ roll disc jockey. No doubt, passersby thought I was streaming a comedy show, as I chuckled to myself at the dialogue I was writing.

Revising is harder to do on the go, because I prefer to revise from the printed page. I was speaking at a conference in Rome, and for the flight home, I planned to review several chapters. I was in the business center at the hotel, printing sections of my memoir. Another American came in to print his boarding pass, and I sheepishly apologized for my 25 pages. Thank goodness I hadn’t printed all 50 in one go! He struck up a conversation, as I tried to hide my memoir. It felt out of place in a “business center.” He said he was from Maryland, and I mentioned I had gone to high school and college there, but now lived in New Jersey. There are two things that tie people from Maryland and DC together: The Redskins and politics. He must have brought up the Redskins, because next the stranger said, “Oh, the best sportscaster we ever had was George Michael.” My father. Had he seen his name on the page? Subliminally?  The pain of his absence and our tragic ending was still raw.  Normally I would have just walked away, silently at that point. But it was Rome, and I had been to the Vatican that morning, and the whole exchange felt both surreal and divine. I acknowledged, then, that he was my father. The stranger shook his head in disbelief. “I taught your sister, Michelle, in junior high.”  I couldn’t believe it. The stranger added, “She had a tough time. Your father was never home, and the divorce was ugly, if I remember correctly.”

I ask you:  what are the chances?

So on that plane ride home, I made some major edits that had been troubling me for months:  how much to include scenes in which my father hurt my sister the most. I had wanted to paint a full picture of our family dynamics and to create empathy for my sister. But this chance encounter with a stranger reminded me that her pain is her story to tell, not mine; there were whole scenes I decided to cut on the flight home.

Would I have made the same edits had I been revising from the solitude of my living room? Maybe, but more likely, this chance encounter influenced the edits. It’s a good thing I write wherever I can.

Happy New Year!






An Early Christmas Gift and More

I got an early Christmas gift last week:  Redbook Magazine named The Sportscaster’s Daughter one of the best books of 2016!  I am both humbled and in awe. It seems surreal to be listed in the same list that includes such greats as Alice Hoffman and Colin Whitehead.

I also have been really happy to see some of my articles in a number of other magazines that I have read for decades:

  • Writer’s Digest “Writing My Memoir Was Healing but Almost Killed Me, Again” And note the picture – those are my real Writer’s Digest books dating back to 1992!
  • Working Mother “Trying to be A Better Mother than My Father”
  • First for Women “The Day My Father Told Me Never To Come Home Again”
  • WeHeartWriting “My Split Personality: The Technical Writer and the Memoiristt”

Beyond the articles, it has been a pure joy to hear from readers via email, Facebook, and in person at a few book clubs. I was moved to hear a woman quote from my book on the meaning of unconditional love.

And yet, this week is always a hard week for me. Tomorrow marks seven years since my dad passed away. It is harder to greet Christmas Eve with the same joy I once did. I make a conscious effort to stay focused on my present joy and to lock past traumas tightly in a box.  I focus on the cookies we bake, the carols we sing, the random acts of kindness all around. There is my husband’s sheer joy of homemade mince pies and the cats’ mischief in wrapping themselves in garland. And I repeat the words of Henry van Dyke: “If you truly believe that love is stronger than hate, then you can keep your Christmas.”

By the way, I only discovered that quote in the church bulletin from December 24, 2009. Coincidence?

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!




A Halloween Football Poem from the 1980s

My father worked evenings so many of our daily communications were via notes left on the kitchen counter. One day, I came home from high school to find a note from my dad asking me to write a Halloween football poem to go with some video highlights.  I wrote a lot of poetry in those days. He suggested it should have liberal use of “fear,” “hit,” “hurt,” and “scare”.

My dad’s draft:

From ghouls and ghosts and long legged beasts

Pete Rozelle, please deliver us…

A note from my father

But they might as well have played touch.

They tried to run, they tried to pace

Maybe it was their uniforms, all orange and black,

By the end of the game, we knew we didn’t want to come back.

You can imagine my pride at my dad asking me to write a poem for his sports show! But truth be told, I knew so little about the game then and was never good at writing on command. My father and I drafted a poem, back and forth. It was fun to hear my words eventually read through the TV on what was then Sports Final, later The Sports Machine, football highlights overlayed with images of jack o‘ lanterns.  Unfortunately, I didn’t save our final poem. I wonder if I will ever stumble across that video clip on YouTube; someone did recently upload a bunch of shows from the 1980s so you never know!

These days, I know more about football (thanks to my son), so if I had to write it again, it would go something like this:

A Halloween Football Poem

Playing in the NFL can feel like hell—

Torture and pain for the smallest gain.

The only reprieve is on All Hallows Eve.

When spirits of past players whisper in your ear,

“There’s nothing to fear.

That ball is yours to take back.

Go for that QB sac.”

Those O-Line men are monsters in disguise

With their evil eyes and massive thighs.

The right tricks on the field

A touchdown can yield.

A win is what you want.

A loss will forever haunt.

Happy Halloween everyone!

Cindi Michael, author The Sportscaster’s Daughter



My Memoir’s Published: The Emotional Roller Coaster of Month One

“An emotional roller coaster!” That’s how one reader described my memoir, The Sportscaster’s Daughter. The same could be said of the book’s first month of publication.

The official publication date was August 23, but it seems that only the likes of JK Rowling can keep those boxes sealed until the release data, as friends advised me Amazon pre-orders had shipped the week before.  So my local book club had an early, impromptu gathering. I advised them:  they were only invited if they agreed to be brutally honest – about the book and its secrets that most of them hadn’t known. They are a highly educated, opinionated bunch. Just don’t get us going on The Red Tent, and keep that wine flowing!

It’s no doubt a tricky thing to discuss a memoir. How can you critique a character in the same way, when it not a fictional character, but rather, a real living, person sitting in front of you? I had to assure them that writers’ workshops are a tougher audience and showed them samples of marked up manuscripts that had more red pen than black typeface.  The conversation started with the usual comments:  my book club hadn’t known how heart breaking my childhood had been and some of those scenes were tough to take.  Some revealed that their husband’s borrowed their book, because they wanted to know about the famed sportscaster, George Michael.   They criticized him for his failings, but credited him for the things he did right. And then the conversation that every writer hopes for:  how my story made them reflect on their own family relationships … what is the limits of their own inner strength.

During book club, one friend asked me, “Does it hurt you when we criticize your dad?” This is a tricky question. And over the past month, I’ve learned that so much depends on who is criticizing and how. I am still protective of my dad; it’s so important to me that people recognize him for when he was a good father (The Golden Years chapter) and understand the challenges he had from his own abusive child hood.  A Deadspin article on the memoir and only on my father’s worst mistakes most certainly hurt. But I guess that is also that site’s style. People don’t like to have their idols tainted in any way, and I suspected the book would draw anger from those fans. Beyond that, I do love hearing from people who remember my dad as a disc jockey. Those were happy times. And I’m not thrilled to hear that people preferred Glen Brenner over my dad. He will always be my favorite sportscaster.

There were a few posts on Good Reads that gave me pause. Ironically, even though I am an avid reader, this is not a site I had used before. One reader said they would have liked to have heard more of my father’s side of the story. I would have too! But in memoir, we can’t make things up. All I could give you was the chapter The Letter, because that is the most he gave me. From my sister, the only explanation is that I hurt him … how remains unclear. By moving away? By getting married without him being there? That was his choice as described in the chapter Fairy Tales. I’ve included speculation by others – his Uncle and a therapist, but their views are their own interpretations of trying to explain that which my father probably didn’t understand himself. I mean, really: he wasn’t reflective to begin with and his work schedule didn’t allow much time for soul searching. As I’ve said, his coping technique and mine works for a period —being a workaholic can dull an unnamed pain.  I find it no small coincidence that my father died less than two years after he retired of an illness he should have been able to beat. Did too much free time allow for too much time to think (Repeating the Cycle chapter)?

Another Good Reads reader surmised that I must have left something out— that I must have done something worse to lead to being disowned. Nope. I would have preferred to leave out the chapters My Fall from Grace and Dying. Reliving those scenes almost killed me, again, but to leave those out would have been misleading to a reader and unfair to my father in explaining that first rift.  Victims often blame themselves, as I did for a time. It’s taken me years to come to realize the fault was not mine.  And as a mother, I really can’t think of what my own children could ever do that would justify a disowning, period. As one person pointed out to me:  did the Jews deserve what happened in the Holocaust? How could Hitler have convinced an entire country to persecute the innocent? And yet, it happened.  A more light hearted comparison:  The Emperor’s New Clothes.

Beyond the readers’ reviews, it’s been so nice to reconnect with some long forgotten friends, to hear from people who say their book helped them reflect on their own family dynamics, and of course to be compared to one of my favorites The Glass Castle.   I am honored the book made a few important fall round ups:

I never thought of myself as a trailblazer, only a survivor. Thank you for reading!

Cindi Michael


The Tale of Two Book Covers (or Three)

It’s official:  my final book cover has been redesigned to move the word “Sportscaster” so that it is no longer covering my father’s eyes. It seems that, as first impressions go, some people thought this was a printing error. It was not an error. It was a designer’s artistic rendering, meant to convey how my father was blinded by his fame. Ot stopped seeing me. Or that something was not quite right. All would be true. Early reviewers interpreted it as something sinister, and I hated that connotation. Sinister is too strong a word for my father’s and my family’s struggles.  I also was sad: this photo was taken in 1980 from a happier time in my life and when my father and I were close. I had felt that the picture had somehow been tainted, but I had to defer to my publisher’s more experienced eye. I was also assuaged that the full picture was reproduced on the inside cover.

The same could be said of the book’s title as well. The original title was Cracks in the Sidewalk, for the past five years.  My original book cover mock up showed a man drawing a heart in a freshly poured sidewalk, a little girl riding her bike on the same sidewalk. To understand the significance of this, you will have to read chapter 1, Digging for Baby Clams, and chapter 25, Going Home.   In the meantime, here is the photo from that symbolic cracked sidewalk.


So personally, I’m glad the cover has been changed, even if it is at the eleventh hour. The book is now at the printer, due out end of August. It would be worse if someone say, at Barnes and Noble, sent all the books back based on the cover. I heard from my publicist that this was the case with one of her clients– 25,000 books trashed over the cover design. Yikes!



Coming soon: my memoir

When I started this blog six years ago, I posted anonymously. I was afraid to share my story and real name of my somewhat-famous father:  George Michael of The Sports Machine.

People who read this blog in its early days re-affirmed that I am not the only one suffering from a family rift. My disowning may have been more extreme and made worse by my father’s public figure, but so many have their own stories. I hope by sharing mine, I can give strength and hope to others. Reading has been both my solace and inspiration from the time I was six. This memoir is my way of giving back.

Some will read it purely for a dramatic family story.  Others will read it because they want to know more about my father and his rise to fame. Whatever the interest, I hope I have told our story right.

The book is due out in August, but can pre-ordered from Amazon.  I started the memoir in 2009, before my father died, in the hopes he would read it and remember. I finished in the hope of understanding and healing.