Progeny

I must preface this by stating it is not a review. You will find no literary critique herein, no philosophizing about the ways in which the novel in question relates to our fundamental understanding of human nature. It simply can’t be done, not by me. As the author’s son, I must of course recuse myself from any such notions of objectivity. But all propriety aside, I still would not be able to even attempt spying through the lens of objectivity when it comes to the novel Progeny.

So I throw that notion to the winds, and give you this full and unabashed view of my own subjectivity. This is nothing more than one man’s treatise on a profoundly personal connection with his father.

Much of my childhood resembles that of Chuck Sterling, and it hasn’t escaped me that these experiences perhaps informed much of the relationship between Owen and Chuck Sterling. They aren’t us, but rather like an overexposed picture of us from my childhood; it isn’t quite what we look like, but the resemblance is obvious. Still, while reading Progeny, I was transported to the times when I, too, would spend many weeks of Summer with my father in the mountains, and many of the interactions between these two characters are things I could easily see transpiring between a younger version of my father and I.

But more than simple events and memories, Progeny conjures feelings. I know that there is some measure of my father in this work, that he has conveyed feelings real and personal. There are passages that leapt out of the page right to me, the echo of my father’s voice, speaking to me, and they told very intimate fears. Not the fears of nature, or the unknown (as Progeny has in spades) but of his own fatherhood.

It is because of this sincere emotional weight that I believe the novel succeeds at the representation of its characters. I know that, if nothing else, it shines at showing a father’s love for his son.

My father has dedicated Progeny to me. If I can be said to have inspired this work, then I am deeply humbled.

This is an odd turning point for me, as I have always thought of my father as a writer, but--until now--not a novelist. Seeing his work shift from the screen to my own chosen medium has given me pause as I ponder what strange fate conspired to ensure that three generations of our line found their way into print. It is a legacy that I had not previously considered, and one that I am now both proud and awed to bear.

If my writing achieves any measure of success, it will be due in no small part to the strident and unyielding support of my father.

Happy Birthday, Dad, and thanks for everything.