Ian McEwan and Lucilla Andrews - notice the headline? Andrews is "romance novelist"... or a mere memoirist... While what ripoff artist McEwan does is apparently prizewinning literature. I don't care if he gave an acknowledgement - he stole the words and the very life of a person - to fictionalize her autobiography without even telling her, or asking her, and to do it so very nearly in the same words.
What creative writing prof, what teacher of any sort would accept this as not plagiarism, even if the work included a thank-you?
Excerpt from Atonement, by Ian McEwan...
"In the way of medical treatments, she had already dabbed gentian violet on ringworm, aquaflavine emulsion on a cut, and painted lead lotion on a bruise. But mostly she was a maid."
Excerpt from No Time For Romance by Lucilla Andrews...
"Our 'nursing' seldom involved more than dabbing gentian violet on ringworm, aquaflavine emulsion on cuts and scratches, lead lotion on bruises and sprains."
and this priceless quote from McEwan:
It is not plausible to invent patient traumas, medical procedures, hospital routines, or details of training, especially when they are more than 60 years old.
Right - it's not plausible at all to invent such things - unless you are a NOVELIST. Who writes FICTION.
What a fucking twit McEwan must be - not even to realize the enormity. Of course it is also fine to do this to "natives" as well as women... or the poor... get their stories, fancy them up according to elitist standards, and call it art. While the art of the original person is a mere animal howl, a pointless gibbering, a source material, a raw material to be mined without question.
I spent an hour or so this morning reading Occasional Superheroine, and I highly recommend it. Though that combined with Lucilla Andrews' story (dying before giving her pissed off debunking speech! depressing!) might make you come near to where my mood is. So I warn you where my mood is. Nothing we ever do will "count" - get it into your heads - and then rage against it all your life as you struggle against the damage in yourself and try to survive and create something. Not to mention the flashbacks to my own torn cervix and lying on my floor bleeding for days. Why can't you be more polite? Gee I dunno!
Back to "work" to do something minor and trivial... because of course typing this doesn't "count" either. And so I move from one un-counted uncounting thing to the next, busybusy. I am out of belief today. It might be a good day to translate some poems about the chilean dictatorship, with that anger; they will also never count. I feel so trapped.