“Writing Home” for the holidays

I’ve never been comfortable with self-promotion — despite the fact that social media sites have turned boasting into an art form. So, I’d like to point out that this post isn’t solely about buying my book as a holiday gift this year. I’m also hoping you’ll buy dozens of other books, or at least consider the gift of reading for the folks on your list.

Books deliver information and entertainment. They introduce us to different worlds, expand our viewpoints, increase our understanding of others and ourselves, and even provide stress relief. Anyone who’s ever curled up with a riveting novel on a wintery afternoon knows that reading is the next best thing to a real vacation.

Even if you don’t purchase my book for your loved ones, please ask your favorite bookseller to help you match another book with their interests, or consider gifting them with a classic novel or a biography you’ve read and loved.
If you live in the Detroit area, you’ll find copies of Writing Home at Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley along with many unique gifts made in Michigan. ~Cindy La Ferle

Where to buy my book

My essay and column collection, Writing Home, is available locally at Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley and Paper Trail Books in downtown Royal Oak. (You’ll find a few used copies on Amazon — but new copies are sold only in retail stores and writing workshops.)

Written during the years I worked at home while raising my son, the collection includes 93 pieces that were previously published in national magazines and newspapers. The book has been dubbed “a love letter to home and family life,” and won several non-fiction awards, including one from Writer’s Digest and another from Midwest Independent Publishers Association.

 

Writing Home column collection

front cover dec 3Described as “both a memoir and a handbook for living,” this collection of my most popular published essays and columns, Writing Home, is now in its second printing. Awarded several prizes for creative nonfiction, the book is for everyone who has ever attempted to combine work, parenthood, and homemaking. Detroit-area readers can purchase copies at Yellow Door Art Market in Berkley.

The Kindle version is also available on Amazon.

Writing Home for Christmas

DSCN2883Need a last-minute, affordable gift this Christmas?* My essay collection, Writing Home, is available on Amazon or can be purchased locally (in Berkley, MI) at the Yellow Door Art Market, where you’ll find lots of Michigan-made gifts and books.

Now in its 2nd edition, Writing Home won several awards for creative nonfiction, including one from Writer’s Digest. It’s a large collection of my favorite published pieces — inspirational, feel-good stories about home, family, and life itself. It’s now available in both print and Kindle editions. Over the past 10 years, several hundred dollars from the profits of my book sales have been donated to organizations serving the homeless in my community.

Wishing you a wonderful, meaningful holiday season this year!

*With apologies for the shameless plug.

My last photo with Dad

This short piece was first published in The Daily Tribune on Father’s Day, 2002, in my old “Life Lines” column. It’s reprinted in my essay collection, Writing Home

249570_10150280937670242_5875146_nIt’s my favorite photograph of Dad and me — one of those priceless family icons I’d rescue if the house caught fire.

Taken on Father’s Day in 1992, it reveals the totally uncomplicated relationship we’d enjoyed right up to the moment the shutter clicked. I use the word uncomplicated because I cant think of a more lyrical way to describe my father or the way he lived.

Even when pop psychologists urged us to scrutinize our parents and find them suspect, I saw my dad as a sweet, patient man whose agenda was rarely hidden. He was the kind of guy who appreciated most people just as they were, and I think that’s what we all loved best about him.

But let me explain the photograph.

Dad and I were standing on my back porch, having just finished the surprise dinner I’d hosted for him and my father-in-law. Dad wore a pale blue-gray windbreaker and an outdated pair of glasses that somehow looked right on him. My hair was orange, thanks to a failed experiment with a drugstore highlighting kit. The late afternoon sun shimmered through the maples in our yard, and my mother was anxious to finish the film left in her camera.

Dad and I hugged tightly for the shot.

He was sixty-five and grinning — despite the grim diagnosis of degenerative heart disease he’d been given a few months earlier. At thirty-seven, I was newly unemployed and unsure of my career path. The travel magazine I edited for nearly six years had folded abruptly, dropping me off at midlife without a new map. Still, summer had arrived and we were optimistic. Dad’s diabetes was under control, or as he put it, he’d been “feeling pretty darned good lately.”

Better yet, the ball games were in full swing. It wasn’t shaping up to be a stellar season for the Tigers, but Cecil Fielder and Lou Whitaker were giving it their best. While I never shared my dad’s religious devotion to baseball, I still can’t hear the crack of a bat against a ball without remembering the old transistor radio he kept tuned to his games.

But theres something else about the photo. Looking at it today, youd never imagine the two of us had a major-league concern beyond what we’d be eating for dessert that evening. Nor would you guess that this 35mm print chronicled one of our last days together.

The inevitable phone call came two weeks later on a Monday morning: “Your dad collapsed in the driveway. The ambulance is coming.”

So this week I’m very grateful for that luminous Father’s Day afternoon ten years ago — grateful I hadn’t waited another day to throw my dad a surprise party. I usually postpone my good intentions, adding them to a long list of things I plan to do later. Later, when theres more time…

“Today is the only time we can possibly live,” wrote Dale Carnegie, whose work my father read often and admired. I see now that Carnegie’s philosophy is gleefully captured in my father’s grin, which my mother wisely captured on film.