Tosca Lee's Blog - Posts Tagged "the-progeny"
A Nano Writing Contest
Goodreads friends, I know many of you are writers. I wanted to alert you to a Nano writing contest sponsored by Splickety Publishing.
The contest is based on one of the themes found in my new book, The Progeny, coming May 24th.
Who are you, really? If you strip away your roles in life, your family, your job… who are you? What is your identity?
You are invited to submit a piece of nano fiction that plays off this theme, You could win a signed copy of The Progeny, and publication in an upcoming imprint of Splickety!
In addition, if you submit proof of purchase for pre-ordering The Progeny, you’ll be entered to win a Kindle Fire courtesy of Splickety Publishing. Just screenshot your receipt and attach it with your submission.
Enter a piece of nano flash fiction (that’s 100 words or less), with the theme of identity.
Visit splicketypubgroup.com for contest details.
Contest Open: March 21, 2016
Submission Deadline: Midnight (PST), March 27, 2016
Send your best work to submissions@splicketypubgroup.com with the subject line PROGENY NANO CONTEST.
The contest is based on one of the themes found in my new book, The Progeny, coming May 24th.
Who are you, really? If you strip away your roles in life, your family, your job… who are you? What is your identity?
You are invited to submit a piece of nano fiction that plays off this theme, You could win a signed copy of The Progeny, and publication in an upcoming imprint of Splickety!
In addition, if you submit proof of purchase for pre-ordering The Progeny, you’ll be entered to win a Kindle Fire courtesy of Splickety Publishing. Just screenshot your receipt and attach it with your submission.
Enter a piece of nano flash fiction (that’s 100 words or less), with the theme of identity.
Visit splicketypubgroup.com for contest details.
Contest Open: March 21, 2016
Submission Deadline: Midnight (PST), March 27, 2016
Send your best work to submissions@splicketypubgroup.com with the subject line PROGENY NANO CONTEST.
THE PROGENY Tosca Lee--Start reading now!
The Progeny
THE CENTER
No one speaks when you enter the Center for the last time. There’s no need. You’ve gone through the counseling, tests, and a checklist of preparations to get the plastic bracelet you wear the day of treatment. The one that saves a life. They don’t need to know why you’re doing it any more. Or that you lied about it all. Just the scratch of the stylus as you sign your name on the screen one last time.
A nurse takes me into a room and I lie down on the table. I give her the sealed packet—the only thing I brought with me. There’s cash, meds, and an address inside, the one for “after.” It’s a thousand miles away. She’ll pass it to the companion assigned to me. No point meeting her now.
I’m 21 years old and my name doesn’t matter because it’s about to be erased forever. I’m choosing to forget the ones I love, and myself, in the process.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. But they don’t tell you that every detail comes screaming back to life. That you taste each bite of every meal you savored, feel the shower of every rain you walked in… smell the hair against your cheek before that last, parting kiss. That you will fight to hold on to every memory like a drowning person gasping for poisoned air.
Then everything you knew is gone. And you are still alive.
For now.
ONE
There’s a figure standing by the window. Arms crossed, outlined against the fuchsia sky, looking out at what must be a spectacular sunset. When her chin lifts I wonder if she’s seen something in the trees.
I push up from the cabin’s lone sofa. An afghan with a giant moose stitched on it is tangled around my legs. It in no way coordinates with the moose valance in the kitchen or the fixture in the bathroom. Despite the name of the lake—Moosehead—I’ve yet to see a real moose anywhere since arriving here four weeks ago.
“You’re awake.” My caretaker, Clare, turns from the window. Her blonde hair is pulled back in the loose ponytail she’s worn every day since we arrived and she set up house. Going into town for groceries as I slept, taking me through two-hour assessments in the afternoon, complimenting my recent attempts at dinner including the under seasoned chicken casserole I made last night. It was the first time I’d tried it, I said, but I don’t know if that’s true.
“Yeah, finally.”
My name is Emily Porter. I’m 21 years old and I am renting a tiny cabin in the north woods of Maine for reasons I no longer remember.
I go through this mental routine each time I wake, if only to assure myself I didn’t get the lobotomy I joked about yesterday before sleeping—what, fifteen, twenty?—hours until just now. I don’t even remember going to sleep. Nor do I remember where I lived before this, or where I went to college, or the name of the high school with the blue lockers and squeaky gymnasium floor where I graduated. Including what happened to the garnet ring on my index finger as I accepted my diploma, or the name of the woman who gave it to me other than simply, “Mom.”
Names, identifiers, faces up to age 19 and everything in the two years since. All gone.
“A certain amount of post-procedure depression is normal. That will change, in time.”
I slide my hand to the curve of my skull just above my left ear. To the stubby patch concealed by the longer hair above it. Not so stubby anymore. It could almost qualify for a military cut.
“As will that.”
“Not fast enough.” I flip the afghan off my legs, pop two pills from the bottle on the coffee table, already trying to decide what culinary disaster I’ll create tonight. “Caretaker” is a misleading word; as soon as I reached the two-week observation and recovery mark, Clare has seen to it that I cook, do laundry, find a job and my way around town as though I were already on my own.
“I’m thinking I should stay away from casseroles for a while. How do you feel about tuna quesadillas?” I get up and pad toward the kitchen, wash my hands. When she doesn’t respond, I look at her and say, “That good, huh.”
That’s when I realize she’s wearing the same blouse and skirt she wore the first day, the wooden tao cross hanging just below her collar. It looks like a capitol T, which is what I thought it was the first time I saw it, for her last name: Thomas. And then I see the suitcase by the door.
A surge of panic wells up inside me.
“Today was my last day, Emily.” She says quietly. “I was just waiting for you to wake.”
“Oh.” I put down the dishtowel, finish drying my hands on my sweatpants. Look around me, lost.
Clare tilts her head. “We talked about it when you got up for a while this morning—remember?”
No. I don’t remember. But I don’t need to turn to see the calendar hanging on the fridge behind me, to follow the line of Xs through each day in September to today—the twentieth—to know she’s right.
“Are you sure you want to go now?” I say. “I mean, it’s almost dark.” I gesture to the window, already in shadow.
I’m not ready for this.
She comes to stand in front of me and lays her hands on my arms. Her left brow is angled a few degrees higher than her right. But instead of making her appear asymmetrical, which all faces are, it animates her eyes.
“You’re doing fine, Emily. Your procedure was a success. You have your fresh start. It’s time to live.” A fresh start. A weird concept when you don’t know what you’re starting over from.
She gives me a squeeze and shoulders her purse. “I could, however, use a lift to shore and into town.”
“Right. Of course.” I glance around, lost in my oversized sweatshirt, looking for my jacket. I knew this day was coming. Then why do I feel like I’m being abandoned?
I lace my boots and grab my keys, but the questions that came at me like a hoard of insects those first few days—before Clare firmly counseled me to trust my decision—have come swarming back, louder than ever. I push them way but when I get to the door there’s something in her hand. An envelope.
The handwriting on the outside is mine.
She holds it out. “You wrote this before your treatment.”
I take it slowly. It’s sealed, my initials scribbled across the flap where it’s stuck shut.
“Most patients choose to write a letter to reassure their post-procedure selves. You can read it when you get back.”
I nod, but a part of me wishes she hadn’t shown it to me at all. I slide it onto the counter. “Okay.”
Outside, we climb into the john boat and I start the outboard motor. It takes all of five minutes for me to guide us in to the dock two hundred yards away. I grab the flashlight from the boat, knock it with the heel of my hand when it sputters. The owner’s beat up Ford Bronco is waiting near the slip.
I ask what time her flight is as we turn onto Lily Bay Road, make small talk about the magnificent foliage around the lake. Finally ask if she ever saw a moose. No, she says, she never did.
Twenty minutes later we pull into the Food Mart at the top of the hill—the same place I caught my breath as the lake first appeared below us the day we arrived. There’s a black town car waiting in the parking lot, and she directs me toward it.
I put the truck in park, wondering what one says in a situation like this. I’m glad it’s nearly dark out.
“I’ve got it,” she says when I start to get out. After retrieving her suitcase, she leans in through the passenger door.
“You’re going to be fine, Emily. It’s a brave decision to go through something like this.”
It doesn’t feel brave, to want to forget.
“Read your letter. Trust yourself. But just in case—” She pulls the tao cross over her head and presses it into my hand. “If you ever find yourself in need of answers.”
Impulsively, I lean across the seat to hug her.
And then she’s gone.
Maybe I don’t want to waste the trip to town, or maybe I just don’t feel like getting the crap scared out of me by the stuffed taxidermy bear in the bedroom that has managed to freak me out every time I try to sleep in there like a normal person. As soon as that black car disappears up the road, I hang the cross from the rearview mirror and decide to pick up some supplies.
But the truth is I’m not ready to read that letter. I don’t know what I’ve left behind—my mind has run the gamut from childhood molestation to abusive boyfriends and post-traumatic stress—but part of me is both dying and terrified to hear from that person before. Afraid of any indication of the thing that landed me on an island the size of a Dorito in the back woods of Maine with roots five shades lighter than the rest of my hair.
Inside the Food Mart I distractedly fill a basket with deli cuts, bananas, microwave popcorn, tampons. The grocery is connected to the Trading Post—a camping, fishing, hunting store—making it the type of place you can buy vegetarian nuggets and a rifle, all in one trip. Or, in my case, wool socks and flashlight batteries. I stop in the wine aisle last. It seems fitting to toast my past as I hear from my former self. Who knows, depending on what’s in the letter, I may even need to get drunk.
I’ve just picked a cabernet with a cool label off the sale shelf—because what else do you go by when you don’t know one from the other—when I sense someone staring at me farther down the aisle.
I look up to find a guy in a green Food Mart apron frozen on a knee where he’s been stocking a lower shelf. For a minute I wonder if he thinks I’m shoplifting, or, more likely, not old enough to buy booze.
I deliberately slide the bottle into my basket. As I start to leave, I hear quick steps behind me.
“Hey. Hey—”
I turn reluctantly. Not only because I already wish I had just gone home, but because, now that he’s closer, I can see the chin-length hair tucked behind his ear, the blue eyes beneath thoughtful brows. And I’m standing here with bad roots and tampons in my basket.
He grabs something from the shelf. “We just got this in,” he says, eyes locked on mine. The couple days’ stubble on his cheeks is the color of honey, a shade lighter than his hair.
I glance at the bottle of non-alcoholic cider. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I’m good.”
“It’s organic,” he says, not even looking at it. He’s got an accent so slight I can’t place it, but it isn’t local.
By now I just want to get out of here. The letter sitting on the table back at the cabin has launched a march of fire ants in my gut. If what’s written in that envelope is meant to be reassuring, I need that reassurance now, because I was doing a lot better with my questions before Clare and her level counsel left and I ever knew the letter existed.
I put the wine back and grab a bottle of tequila on my way to the register.
There’s no one there. I swing the basket up onto the conveyer belt and look around. A moment later the same guy comes over and starts to ring me up.
“Hi again,” he smiles. I look away.
Halfway through checkout, I realize I can’t find my debit card. I pull out my keys and dig through my jacket pockets. And then I see it lying on the counter back at the cabin, right next to the grocery list of all the things I just bought.
“I forgot my card,” I stammer.
He shrugs. “No problem. I can set them aside or have them delivered if you want. You can pay for them then.”
“No,” I say quickly, stepping away. “That’s okay.” By now two more people are waiting in line behind me. “Sorry.” I turn on my heel and hurry to the door and the evening outside, leaving the stuff on the conveyer belt.
Outside, bugs swarm the lone parking lot light. I get to my truck, grab the door handle… and then drop my forehead against the window with a curse. My keys are back inside on the little ledge old ladies use to write checks.
I peer through the dark window like the truck is going to come unlocked by sheer force of will. It doesn’t. And there’s the flashlight with the nearly-dead batteries lying between the seats.
“Hey!” The voice comes from the direction of the mart’s automatic door. I push away from the truck.
It’s the guy, holding up my keys. “You forgot something.”
“Yeah. Like my mind.”
He hands me my keys and two plastic grocery bags. I look at them, bewildered.
“On me,” he says.
“Oh. No, I can’t—”
“Already done. Besides, that tequila looked pretty important,” he says with a slight smile.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“It’s no problem.” He hesitates, and then wishes me a good night.
I pass a whole five cars on my way up Lily Bay and none on the road to the lake. Six houses tucked in the trees along this mile-and-a-half stretch of gravel called Black Point Road share the dock where the boat is tied beneath a motion-sensor light. Modest homes of normal people living lives full of details they might like to forget, but have somehow learned to live with.
The water is black beneath the boat and I’m glad for the cabin’s wan kitchen lights, relieved even for its parade of moose above the window, the bear waiting in the bedroom.
I dump the bags on the counter and sit down on the sofa with the letter, not bothering to take off my boots. After a long moment of staring at my name, I slide my finger under the edge of the envelope and tear it open.
Emily, it’s me. You.
Don’t ask about the last two years. If everything went as planned, you’ve forgotten them along with several other details of your life. Don’t try to remember—they tell me it’s impossible—and don’t go digging.
Start over. Get a job. Fall in love. Live a simple, quiet life. But leave the past where it is. Keep your face off the web. Your life depends on it. Others’ lives depend on it.
By the way, Emily isn’t your birth name. You died in an accident. You paid extra for that.
I look up from the letter and take in the tiny, eco-friendly cabin with new eyes. No computer. No phone. No cable television. I’m twenty minutes from the nearest town, population sixteen hundred, where people are outnumbered by invisible moose.
I didn’t come to start over.
I came to hide.
THE CENTER
No one speaks when you enter the Center for the last time. There’s no need. You’ve gone through the counseling, tests, and a checklist of preparations to get the plastic bracelet you wear the day of treatment. The one that saves a life. They don’t need to know why you’re doing it any more. Or that you lied about it all. Just the scratch of the stylus as you sign your name on the screen one last time.
A nurse takes me into a room and I lie down on the table. I give her the sealed packet—the only thing I brought with me. There’s cash, meds, and an address inside, the one for “after.” It’s a thousand miles away. She’ll pass it to the companion assigned to me. No point meeting her now.
I’m 21 years old and my name doesn’t matter because it’s about to be erased forever. I’m choosing to forget the ones I love, and myself, in the process.
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. But they don’t tell you that every detail comes screaming back to life. That you taste each bite of every meal you savored, feel the shower of every rain you walked in… smell the hair against your cheek before that last, parting kiss. That you will fight to hold on to every memory like a drowning person gasping for poisoned air.
Then everything you knew is gone. And you are still alive.
For now.
ONE
There’s a figure standing by the window. Arms crossed, outlined against the fuchsia sky, looking out at what must be a spectacular sunset. When her chin lifts I wonder if she’s seen something in the trees.
I push up from the cabin’s lone sofa. An afghan with a giant moose stitched on it is tangled around my legs. It in no way coordinates with the moose valance in the kitchen or the fixture in the bathroom. Despite the name of the lake—Moosehead—I’ve yet to see a real moose anywhere since arriving here four weeks ago.
“You’re awake.” My caretaker, Clare, turns from the window. Her blonde hair is pulled back in the loose ponytail she’s worn every day since we arrived and she set up house. Going into town for groceries as I slept, taking me through two-hour assessments in the afternoon, complimenting my recent attempts at dinner including the under seasoned chicken casserole I made last night. It was the first time I’d tried it, I said, but I don’t know if that’s true.
“Yeah, finally.”
My name is Emily Porter. I’m 21 years old and I am renting a tiny cabin in the north woods of Maine for reasons I no longer remember.
I go through this mental routine each time I wake, if only to assure myself I didn’t get the lobotomy I joked about yesterday before sleeping—what, fifteen, twenty?—hours until just now. I don’t even remember going to sleep. Nor do I remember where I lived before this, or where I went to college, or the name of the high school with the blue lockers and squeaky gymnasium floor where I graduated. Including what happened to the garnet ring on my index finger as I accepted my diploma, or the name of the woman who gave it to me other than simply, “Mom.”
Names, identifiers, faces up to age 19 and everything in the two years since. All gone.
“A certain amount of post-procedure depression is normal. That will change, in time.”
I slide my hand to the curve of my skull just above my left ear. To the stubby patch concealed by the longer hair above it. Not so stubby anymore. It could almost qualify for a military cut.
“As will that.”
“Not fast enough.” I flip the afghan off my legs, pop two pills from the bottle on the coffee table, already trying to decide what culinary disaster I’ll create tonight. “Caretaker” is a misleading word; as soon as I reached the two-week observation and recovery mark, Clare has seen to it that I cook, do laundry, find a job and my way around town as though I were already on my own.
“I’m thinking I should stay away from casseroles for a while. How do you feel about tuna quesadillas?” I get up and pad toward the kitchen, wash my hands. When she doesn’t respond, I look at her and say, “That good, huh.”
That’s when I realize she’s wearing the same blouse and skirt she wore the first day, the wooden tao cross hanging just below her collar. It looks like a capitol T, which is what I thought it was the first time I saw it, for her last name: Thomas. And then I see the suitcase by the door.
A surge of panic wells up inside me.
“Today was my last day, Emily.” She says quietly. “I was just waiting for you to wake.”
“Oh.” I put down the dishtowel, finish drying my hands on my sweatpants. Look around me, lost.
Clare tilts her head. “We talked about it when you got up for a while this morning—remember?”
No. I don’t remember. But I don’t need to turn to see the calendar hanging on the fridge behind me, to follow the line of Xs through each day in September to today—the twentieth—to know she’s right.
“Are you sure you want to go now?” I say. “I mean, it’s almost dark.” I gesture to the window, already in shadow.
I’m not ready for this.
She comes to stand in front of me and lays her hands on my arms. Her left brow is angled a few degrees higher than her right. But instead of making her appear asymmetrical, which all faces are, it animates her eyes.
“You’re doing fine, Emily. Your procedure was a success. You have your fresh start. It’s time to live.” A fresh start. A weird concept when you don’t know what you’re starting over from.
She gives me a squeeze and shoulders her purse. “I could, however, use a lift to shore and into town.”
“Right. Of course.” I glance around, lost in my oversized sweatshirt, looking for my jacket. I knew this day was coming. Then why do I feel like I’m being abandoned?
I lace my boots and grab my keys, but the questions that came at me like a hoard of insects those first few days—before Clare firmly counseled me to trust my decision—have come swarming back, louder than ever. I push them way but when I get to the door there’s something in her hand. An envelope.
The handwriting on the outside is mine.
She holds it out. “You wrote this before your treatment.”
I take it slowly. It’s sealed, my initials scribbled across the flap where it’s stuck shut.
“Most patients choose to write a letter to reassure their post-procedure selves. You can read it when you get back.”
I nod, but a part of me wishes she hadn’t shown it to me at all. I slide it onto the counter. “Okay.”
Outside, we climb into the john boat and I start the outboard motor. It takes all of five minutes for me to guide us in to the dock two hundred yards away. I grab the flashlight from the boat, knock it with the heel of my hand when it sputters. The owner’s beat up Ford Bronco is waiting near the slip.
I ask what time her flight is as we turn onto Lily Bay Road, make small talk about the magnificent foliage around the lake. Finally ask if she ever saw a moose. No, she says, she never did.
Twenty minutes later we pull into the Food Mart at the top of the hill—the same place I caught my breath as the lake first appeared below us the day we arrived. There’s a black town car waiting in the parking lot, and she directs me toward it.
I put the truck in park, wondering what one says in a situation like this. I’m glad it’s nearly dark out.
“I’ve got it,” she says when I start to get out. After retrieving her suitcase, she leans in through the passenger door.
“You’re going to be fine, Emily. It’s a brave decision to go through something like this.”
It doesn’t feel brave, to want to forget.
“Read your letter. Trust yourself. But just in case—” She pulls the tao cross over her head and presses it into my hand. “If you ever find yourself in need of answers.”
Impulsively, I lean across the seat to hug her.
And then she’s gone.
Maybe I don’t want to waste the trip to town, or maybe I just don’t feel like getting the crap scared out of me by the stuffed taxidermy bear in the bedroom that has managed to freak me out every time I try to sleep in there like a normal person. As soon as that black car disappears up the road, I hang the cross from the rearview mirror and decide to pick up some supplies.
But the truth is I’m not ready to read that letter. I don’t know what I’ve left behind—my mind has run the gamut from childhood molestation to abusive boyfriends and post-traumatic stress—but part of me is both dying and terrified to hear from that person before. Afraid of any indication of the thing that landed me on an island the size of a Dorito in the back woods of Maine with roots five shades lighter than the rest of my hair.
Inside the Food Mart I distractedly fill a basket with deli cuts, bananas, microwave popcorn, tampons. The grocery is connected to the Trading Post—a camping, fishing, hunting store—making it the type of place you can buy vegetarian nuggets and a rifle, all in one trip. Or, in my case, wool socks and flashlight batteries. I stop in the wine aisle last. It seems fitting to toast my past as I hear from my former self. Who knows, depending on what’s in the letter, I may even need to get drunk.
I’ve just picked a cabernet with a cool label off the sale shelf—because what else do you go by when you don’t know one from the other—when I sense someone staring at me farther down the aisle.
I look up to find a guy in a green Food Mart apron frozen on a knee where he’s been stocking a lower shelf. For a minute I wonder if he thinks I’m shoplifting, or, more likely, not old enough to buy booze.
I deliberately slide the bottle into my basket. As I start to leave, I hear quick steps behind me.
“Hey. Hey—”
I turn reluctantly. Not only because I already wish I had just gone home, but because, now that he’s closer, I can see the chin-length hair tucked behind his ear, the blue eyes beneath thoughtful brows. And I’m standing here with bad roots and tampons in my basket.
He grabs something from the shelf. “We just got this in,” he says, eyes locked on mine. The couple days’ stubble on his cheeks is the color of honey, a shade lighter than his hair.
I glance at the bottle of non-alcoholic cider. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I’m good.”
“It’s organic,” he says, not even looking at it. He’s got an accent so slight I can’t place it, but it isn’t local.
By now I just want to get out of here. The letter sitting on the table back at the cabin has launched a march of fire ants in my gut. If what’s written in that envelope is meant to be reassuring, I need that reassurance now, because I was doing a lot better with my questions before Clare and her level counsel left and I ever knew the letter existed.
I put the wine back and grab a bottle of tequila on my way to the register.
There’s no one there. I swing the basket up onto the conveyer belt and look around. A moment later the same guy comes over and starts to ring me up.
“Hi again,” he smiles. I look away.
Halfway through checkout, I realize I can’t find my debit card. I pull out my keys and dig through my jacket pockets. And then I see it lying on the counter back at the cabin, right next to the grocery list of all the things I just bought.
“I forgot my card,” I stammer.
He shrugs. “No problem. I can set them aside or have them delivered if you want. You can pay for them then.”
“No,” I say quickly, stepping away. “That’s okay.” By now two more people are waiting in line behind me. “Sorry.” I turn on my heel and hurry to the door and the evening outside, leaving the stuff on the conveyer belt.
Outside, bugs swarm the lone parking lot light. I get to my truck, grab the door handle… and then drop my forehead against the window with a curse. My keys are back inside on the little ledge old ladies use to write checks.
I peer through the dark window like the truck is going to come unlocked by sheer force of will. It doesn’t. And there’s the flashlight with the nearly-dead batteries lying between the seats.
“Hey!” The voice comes from the direction of the mart’s automatic door. I push away from the truck.
It’s the guy, holding up my keys. “You forgot something.”
“Yeah. Like my mind.”
He hands me my keys and two plastic grocery bags. I look at them, bewildered.
“On me,” he says.
“Oh. No, I can’t—”
“Already done. Besides, that tequila looked pretty important,” he says with a slight smile.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“It’s no problem.” He hesitates, and then wishes me a good night.
I pass a whole five cars on my way up Lily Bay and none on the road to the lake. Six houses tucked in the trees along this mile-and-a-half stretch of gravel called Black Point Road share the dock where the boat is tied beneath a motion-sensor light. Modest homes of normal people living lives full of details they might like to forget, but have somehow learned to live with.
The water is black beneath the boat and I’m glad for the cabin’s wan kitchen lights, relieved even for its parade of moose above the window, the bear waiting in the bedroom.
I dump the bags on the counter and sit down on the sofa with the letter, not bothering to take off my boots. After a long moment of staring at my name, I slide my finger under the edge of the envelope and tear it open.
Emily, it’s me. You.
Don’t ask about the last two years. If everything went as planned, you’ve forgotten them along with several other details of your life. Don’t try to remember—they tell me it’s impossible—and don’t go digging.
Start over. Get a job. Fall in love. Live a simple, quiet life. But leave the past where it is. Keep your face off the web. Your life depends on it. Others’ lives depend on it.
By the way, Emily isn’t your birth name. You died in an accident. You paid extra for that.
I look up from the letter and take in the tiny, eco-friendly cabin with new eyes. No computer. No phone. No cable television. I’m twenty minutes from the nearest town, population sixteen hundred, where people are outnumbered by invisible moose.
I didn’t come to start over.
I came to hide.
Progeny Signing
Oh my Gosh. There’s nothing like doing a signing at your home Barnes & Noble—three days before your latest release, no less (just for the hometown advantage. ;D)
I met and re-met the most incredible readers, old and new friends, book club members, and friends/family of fans too far away who came on their behalf. I admired tattoos, held babies (they didn’t even spit up on me—win!), hugged a lot, and just loved getting to hear a little about the lives, triumphs, work and families of those who took the time to come out.
Honestly, this is my favorite part of my job. Yes, I love writing. But writing is just communication—a way to connect with other human beings. To invite them to escape with you into another world/time/set of shoes and live vicariously for a while. To let others know that they are not alone, or weird (or, if they are, that we’re all weird).
Days like yesterday fill me with gratitude—for you, for books, for story, for the legacy of the most creative Being in the universe that flows in each of us.
I also got to meet the amazing April and Leslie, who made the funnest video about their day. Be sure to check it out and subscribe to April’s YouTube channel! Here's the link:
http://bit.ly/1TC2PUE
I met and re-met the most incredible readers, old and new friends, book club members, and friends/family of fans too far away who came on their behalf. I admired tattoos, held babies (they didn’t even spit up on me—win!), hugged a lot, and just loved getting to hear a little about the lives, triumphs, work and families of those who took the time to come out.
Honestly, this is my favorite part of my job. Yes, I love writing. But writing is just communication—a way to connect with other human beings. To invite them to escape with you into another world/time/set of shoes and live vicariously for a while. To let others know that they are not alone, or weird (or, if they are, that we’re all weird).
Days like yesterday fill me with gratitude—for you, for books, for story, for the legacy of the most creative Being in the universe that flows in each of us.
I also got to meet the amazing April and Leslie, who made the funnest video about their day. Be sure to check it out and subscribe to April’s YouTube channel! Here's the link:
http://bit.ly/1TC2PUE
Who are You Really?
The Progeny is out! What a journey this has been. I started research for this book and its sequel almost two years ago and it has taken me places far beyond the borders of Croatia and Hungary, where I went in pursuit of the “Blood Countess,” Elizabeth Bathory.
Why? Because at its heart, The Progeny is about one simple question:
Who are you really?
Who are you when your roles–daughter, son, sister, brother, friend, neighbor, wife, husband, student, job and titles–and your relationships are stripped away? Who are you at your core? When we step out of the history and experiences that we think define us, that make up an identity we believe to be our true selves… who are you? Are we just the sum of those things… or something beyond them all?
The Progeny is also about genius in all its forms–some more obvious than others. Maybe you, like me, have OCD. Or have contended with something unseen by others, in secret, for years. Maybe you’ve struggled with it through your life to the point that it’s interfered in your daily existence. Whether it’s ADD, ADHD, addiction, depression, anxiety, bi-polor disorder, autism, a chronic illness… whatever it is… I believe it informs your particular genius. The thing that causes you to see the world in a way that others can’t. I wrote this book as a reminder that the way you see the world is a gift. You are amazing. You are Progeny. (Use your powers for good, people!)
This book is about and for you. It’s about us and who we are. Because we’re not so different, in the end.
I love you guys. This story is for you.
PS: We worked hard with the publisher to get the price down for this launch. Look for The Progeny at your favorite book retailer.
Why? Because at its heart, The Progeny is about one simple question:
Who are you really?
Who are you when your roles–daughter, son, sister, brother, friend, neighbor, wife, husband, student, job and titles–and your relationships are stripped away? Who are you at your core? When we step out of the history and experiences that we think define us, that make up an identity we believe to be our true selves… who are you? Are we just the sum of those things… or something beyond them all?
The Progeny is also about genius in all its forms–some more obvious than others. Maybe you, like me, have OCD. Or have contended with something unseen by others, in secret, for years. Maybe you’ve struggled with it through your life to the point that it’s interfered in your daily existence. Whether it’s ADD, ADHD, addiction, depression, anxiety, bi-polor disorder, autism, a chronic illness… whatever it is… I believe it informs your particular genius. The thing that causes you to see the world in a way that others can’t. I wrote this book as a reminder that the way you see the world is a gift. You are amazing. You are Progeny. (Use your powers for good, people!)
This book is about and for you. It’s about us and who we are. Because we’re not so different, in the end.
I love you guys. This story is for you.
PS: We worked hard with the publisher to get the price down for this launch. Look for The Progeny at your favorite book retailer.
Secrets and Beans
Now that we’ve already established that I’m horrible at keeping secrets and good at spilling the beans and now that many of you have already finished reading The Progeny (so many of you devoured it in hours!) I’m here to dish some more (but no spoilers–I promise. And please, no one add any in the comments!)
*I carried the first line of this book around with me for about five years before I knew what story it went to.
*I did that with Iscariot, too.
*Piotrek is a name briefly mentioned in the first edition of Demon: A Memoir.
*Erasing memories using light is actually a thing… that may be a bigger thing in the future. Read about it HERE.
*I love Greenville, Maine. The names of the restaurants are made up–-one of which (The Limit) was picked from suggestions offered by my readers on Facebook.
*The whole thing about Audra’s bike crash scars… yeah. That’s me. As is the thing about Attila.
*A man sitting next to Audra in one scene is reading a Steven James novel. A character in one of Steven James’ novels is reading a Tosca Lee novel. You can also find a character reading Demon: A Memoir in one of James Rubart’s novels.
*They really do serve coffee with little shots of water in Croatia. I think you’re supposed to drink the water first. Or at least, that’s what I did.
*All the details about Lubenice on Cres island are true.
*Everything about the tunnels beneath Budapest is true.
*Yeah, I loved coming up with all the costumes (which was your favorite?)
*Two of Audra’s major clues are on the front and back cover.
*Pay attention to the map!
*Two characters alive at the end of Book 1 do not survive Book 2.
*I carried the first line of this book around with me for about five years before I knew what story it went to.
*I did that with Iscariot, too.
*Piotrek is a name briefly mentioned in the first edition of Demon: A Memoir.
*Erasing memories using light is actually a thing… that may be a bigger thing in the future. Read about it HERE.
*I love Greenville, Maine. The names of the restaurants are made up–-one of which (The Limit) was picked from suggestions offered by my readers on Facebook.
*The whole thing about Audra’s bike crash scars… yeah. That’s me. As is the thing about Attila.
*A man sitting next to Audra in one scene is reading a Steven James novel. A character in one of Steven James’ novels is reading a Tosca Lee novel. You can also find a character reading Demon: A Memoir in one of James Rubart’s novels.
*They really do serve coffee with little shots of water in Croatia. I think you’re supposed to drink the water first. Or at least, that’s what I did.
*All the details about Lubenice on Cres island are true.
*Everything about the tunnels beneath Budapest is true.
*Yeah, I loved coming up with all the costumes (which was your favorite?)
*Two of Audra’s major clues are on the front and back cover.
*Pay attention to the map!
*Two characters alive at the end of Book 1 do not survive Book 2.
New Progeny T: Live Now!
I don't always know a book's theme until I start writing.
But week after week as I wrote the story of Audra, who had lost her past, and of the young descendants of Elizabeth Bathory living without guarantee of tomorrow, the theme became dazzlingly apparent to me. Live. Live now, in the only moment that exists: this one.
If you've read The Progeny, you know that the last character on Audra’s UV tattoo is the ancient Glagolitic symbol for "life." A reminder for any of us living in the past or worrying about the future to LIVE fully, right now, in the present. Something I have to remember to do daily, hourly. Sometimes by the moment itself.
As someone who struggles with OCD, anxiety and occasional depression, I made this t-shirt as a reminder for myself. But I know I'm not alone in my preoccupation with things that seem bigger than they are, worry about a past that no longer exists, or fear of the future. Every time I've been transparent in an interview about depression, or even the ups and downs of creative life, I've received a massive response and outpouring of "me, too."
So I’ve made these shirts for you, too. A reminder for those of us untethered from the moment to fear not! And be fully alive—right now.
Tosca
ORDER YOUR SHIRT HERE: http://toscalee.com/product/glagoliti...
Look What Came in the Mail...
My publisher just sent me the last galley of Firstborn, the sequel to The Progeny. That means two things: first, it's going into production and on its way to you! (Yay!) Second... I'm late starting the short stories I promised. BUT they're coming... so look out and make sure you're signed up for my newsletter, which is how I'll be sending them to you. Use this link to subscribe: http://eepurl.com/bF4HaT
In the meantime, I have one question for you. It occurred to me while I was writing the Author's Note for this duology (which will appear at the back of Firstborn), that I don't actually know if people read these things. Do you? Why or why not? Leave a comment with your answer.
Meanwhile, we're working on the big Firstborn cover reveal, after which Firstborn will be ready for pre-orders. Are you ready to run for your life... again?
In the meantime, I have one question for you. It occurred to me while I was writing the Author's Note for this duology (which will appear at the back of Firstborn), that I don't actually know if people read these things. Do you? Why or why not? Leave a comment with your answer.
Meanwhile, we're working on the big Firstborn cover reveal, after which Firstborn will be ready for pre-orders. Are you ready to run for your life... again?
Best of 2016
Thank you, Write/Read/Life, for naming The Progeny Top Thriller pick of 2016!
"There is not much I can say that will adequately portray how good this book is! Lee is a master storyteller has crafted the best story that I have read in a long, long time."
Read their full review here: https://writereadlife.com/2016/05/24/...
"There is not much I can say that will adequately portray how good this book is! Lee is a master storyteller has crafted the best story that I have read in a long, long time."
Read their full review here: https://writereadlife.com/2016/05/24/...
In which Tosca Interviews Herself on the Delay of Firstborn
In truth, this was a hard interview to get. After weeks of unanswered calls and no-shows, I finally cornered the elusive inner-author with a bacon trap in the kitchen, (which she did, in fact, manage to nab before the dog).
Me: There you are!
Tosca: This is my bacon. You can’t take it from me.
Me: There’s been a lot of speculation swirling around your recent trip to New York City. Care to comment?
Tosca: Those photos weren’t me. Someone hacked my Snapchat—
Me: I’m referring to rumors that you went to discuss your next series, but more importantly, a delay in the release of Firstborn. Is it true that the sequel readers have been asking about for months, is, in fact, delayed until May?
Tosca: Just so you know, I lobbied for the sequel to be released six or even four months after the first book. Due to a few eruptions in 2016 (cough cough—Olympics—cough—election) that wasn’t possible. We settled on February 28 but yes; due to circumstances outside of my control, that has now been pushed to May 2. But I want you to know I wrote that book in a fervor between getting married and going on my honeymoon a year ago because I was concerned about getting it out to everyone who wanted to hunt me down after The Progeny.
Me: You mean because of the cliffhanger.
Tosca: The purported cliffhanger. That might be an alternative fact.
Me: An alternative fact that resulted in triple deadbolts on your front door. So you wrote it that quickly to save your own skin.
Tosca: Hey, you saw that video of the crazy lady at Barnes and Noble.
Me: So you were holed up for weeks, writing…
Tosca: Yes. In a bunker. Salman Rushdie and I are like *this.*
Me: A bunker in Bora Bora. With a hot man who is your husband and looks nothing like Salman Rushdie.
Tosca: That was only for a week. The point is, I'm always thinking about my readers—from plot twist to character insights and revelations, I’m thinking of how best to serve and entertain them. To help them escape. It’s my privilege as a novelist and a job I take seriously. Which is why I wanted to get it to them as soon as possible.
Me: You say that, but isn’t it true that you’re unapologetic about the way you left The Progeny?
Tosca: In the words of Rick Riordian’s dedication of The House of Hades, “To my wonderful readers: Sorry about that last cliffhanger. Well, no, not really. HAHAHAHA.”
Me: That’s not funny.
Tosca: It kind of is. It’s also true that his last line was, “But seriously, I love you guys.” Which is why we do it. Because we love our readers and want them to have fun. Remember questioning who shot J.R. in the 80s? What was going to happen to Rachel and Ross after he accidentally said her name at his wedding to another woman in the 90s? Wondering whether Bonnie and Damon died at the end of The Vampire Diaries season 5? And don’t get me started on the Walking Dead’s Glenn. Suspense has kept us tuning in—and turning pages—from Gone With the Wind to The Mazerunner for decades. We love stories because they rip our hearts out and make us want more.
Me: And yet you still hoped to get Firstborn to readers sooner.
Tosca: I’m not a sadist.
Me: Is there anything you’d like to say to your readers?
Tosca: Sorry guys. I tried my best. I really did. That said, I loved writing Firstborn and hope you feel it was worth the wait.
Me: How are you going to make that wait up to us?
Tosca: Did you miss the part where I said this wasn't my fault?
Me: And yet...
Tosca: Well, I guess I could release some behind-the-story secrets.
Me: Keep talking.
Tosca: Swag?
Me: Isn’t it true that you promised your readers a serial short story to hold them over?
Tosca: I might have, yeah, I kind of—
Me: And isn’t it true that you said you’d make it available before the end of 2016?
Tosca: Why do I feel like I'm being interrogated?
Me: Because you’ve seen way too many episodes of Homeland.
Tosca: Look, I’ve had a lot on my plate lately.
Me: Evidently. Aren’t those the same sweat pants you wore yesterday and last week? Exactly how much stress eating have you been doing anyway?
Tosca: This interview’s over. I’m taking the bacon. And the See’s toffee in the cabinet.
So there you have it. It isn’t the news I wanted to deliver, and I’ve dragged my heels in doing so. It pains me to see Firstborn get penalized for the delay in early reviews that have nothing to do with the writing, but there it is.
For those of you who loved The Progeny,I can promise you this: more non-stop action, thrills, big reveals, and a major conclusion to this duology (there are only two books in this story) that has given me so much joy to write.
Meanwhile, I’m on to the next series, and I’m ready to amp up the thrills.
Thank you for hanging tough with me. Thank you for supporting me through trying periods as this one has been. You are foremost in my thoughts, and my stories are for you.
Me: There you are!
Tosca: This is my bacon. You can’t take it from me.
Me: There’s been a lot of speculation swirling around your recent trip to New York City. Care to comment?
Tosca: Those photos weren’t me. Someone hacked my Snapchat—
Me: I’m referring to rumors that you went to discuss your next series, but more importantly, a delay in the release of Firstborn. Is it true that the sequel readers have been asking about for months, is, in fact, delayed until May?
Tosca: Just so you know, I lobbied for the sequel to be released six or even four months after the first book. Due to a few eruptions in 2016 (cough cough—Olympics—cough—election) that wasn’t possible. We settled on February 28 but yes; due to circumstances outside of my control, that has now been pushed to May 2. But I want you to know I wrote that book in a fervor between getting married and going on my honeymoon a year ago because I was concerned about getting it out to everyone who wanted to hunt me down after The Progeny.
Me: You mean because of the cliffhanger.
Tosca: The purported cliffhanger. That might be an alternative fact.
Me: An alternative fact that resulted in triple deadbolts on your front door. So you wrote it that quickly to save your own skin.
Tosca: Hey, you saw that video of the crazy lady at Barnes and Noble.
Me: So you were holed up for weeks, writing…
Tosca: Yes. In a bunker. Salman Rushdie and I are like *this.*
Me: A bunker in Bora Bora. With a hot man who is your husband and looks nothing like Salman Rushdie.
Tosca: That was only for a week. The point is, I'm always thinking about my readers—from plot twist to character insights and revelations, I’m thinking of how best to serve and entertain them. To help them escape. It’s my privilege as a novelist and a job I take seriously. Which is why I wanted to get it to them as soon as possible.
Me: You say that, but isn’t it true that you’re unapologetic about the way you left The Progeny?
Tosca: In the words of Rick Riordian’s dedication of The House of Hades, “To my wonderful readers: Sorry about that last cliffhanger. Well, no, not really. HAHAHAHA.”
Me: That’s not funny.
Tosca: It kind of is. It’s also true that his last line was, “But seriously, I love you guys.” Which is why we do it. Because we love our readers and want them to have fun. Remember questioning who shot J.R. in the 80s? What was going to happen to Rachel and Ross after he accidentally said her name at his wedding to another woman in the 90s? Wondering whether Bonnie and Damon died at the end of The Vampire Diaries season 5? And don’t get me started on the Walking Dead’s Glenn. Suspense has kept us tuning in—and turning pages—from Gone With the Wind to The Mazerunner for decades. We love stories because they rip our hearts out and make us want more.
Me: And yet you still hoped to get Firstborn to readers sooner.
Tosca: I’m not a sadist.
Me: Is there anything you’d like to say to your readers?
Tosca: Sorry guys. I tried my best. I really did. That said, I loved writing Firstborn and hope you feel it was worth the wait.
Me: How are you going to make that wait up to us?
Tosca: Did you miss the part where I said this wasn't my fault?
Me: And yet...
Tosca: Well, I guess I could release some behind-the-story secrets.
Me: Keep talking.
Tosca: Swag?
Me: Isn’t it true that you promised your readers a serial short story to hold them over?
Tosca: I might have, yeah, I kind of—
Me: And isn’t it true that you said you’d make it available before the end of 2016?
Tosca: Why do I feel like I'm being interrogated?
Me: Because you’ve seen way too many episodes of Homeland.
Tosca: Look, I’ve had a lot on my plate lately.
Me: Evidently. Aren’t those the same sweat pants you wore yesterday and last week? Exactly how much stress eating have you been doing anyway?
Tosca: This interview’s over. I’m taking the bacon. And the See’s toffee in the cabinet.
So there you have it. It isn’t the news I wanted to deliver, and I’ve dragged my heels in doing so. It pains me to see Firstborn get penalized for the delay in early reviews that have nothing to do with the writing, but there it is.
For those of you who loved The Progeny,I can promise you this: more non-stop action, thrills, big reveals, and a major conclusion to this duology (there are only two books in this story) that has given me so much joy to write.
Meanwhile, I’m on to the next series, and I’m ready to amp up the thrills.
Thank you for hanging tough with me. Thank you for supporting me through trying periods as this one has been. You are foremost in my thoughts, and my stories are for you.
Win a Copy of The Progeny
The paperbook edition of The Progeny will be out March 7th. My publisher is giving away several copies on right here on Goodreads. Enter at the link below by February 28th!
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...
The cover has a new design, but you’ll experience the same thrills inside. Here’s what readers are saying:
“One of the best thrillers I’ve read in a very long time. Don’t miss this one.” – Alyssa on Goodreads
“Outstanding plot twists, great suspense and surprises abound in this book!” – Steve on Goodreads
“Such a wild ride! Fast paced, action packed, full of mystery, and suspense. I loved it!” -Ashley on Goodreads
You can pre-order copies of The Progeny now.
http://amzn.to/2kuMmHw
https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sh...
The cover has a new design, but you’ll experience the same thrills inside. Here’s what readers are saying:
“One of the best thrillers I’ve read in a very long time. Don’t miss this one.” – Alyssa on Goodreads
“Outstanding plot twists, great suspense and surprises abound in this book!” – Steve on Goodreads
“Such a wild ride! Fast paced, action packed, full of mystery, and suspense. I loved it!” -Ashley on Goodreads
You can pre-order copies of The Progeny now.
http://amzn.to/2kuMmHw
