THE DONOR: a Novel
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THE DONOR: A Novel and “Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor” Catherine Gillard (18909194) BA (Hons) UWA This exegesis is presented for the Master of Arts (Creative Writing) for the University of Western Australia School of Humanities (Discipline of English and Cultural Studies) 2018 Abstract My novel, The Donor, tells the story of a middle-aged professor whose large brood of donor offspring begin to appear thirty years after he donates sperm as a student. The story is told from the point of view of the donor and three of his donor offspring, as their lives become precariously entwined when his children learn the truth of their origins. Inspired by accounts of donor-conceived people and their donors in both mainstream media and social science studies, The Donor is set in Western Australia where commercially available anonymous donor insemination gave heterosexual couples the chance to have children but, until the late 1980s, the anonymity of donors and their right to privacy was regarded as paramount. During this period donor-using couples were strongly encouraged to hide the truth about the conception from everyone, especially the children, and it was not until the early 21st century that the negative psychological and social impacts of this practice were recognised. The Donor is an extended assertion that human procreation is not merely a matter of individual choice and can never be a purely private responsibility. Instead (like writing fiction) it has social, and sometimes political, significance. “Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor,” explores how I crafted my novel to depict the experience of donor-conceived people: the fears and anxieties they face in discovering the truth about their biological origins and the potential consequences of not knowing this basic genetic information about themselves, as well as the related concept of “father hunger” as a driver of narrative. It also examines issues involved in writing within an ethical framework when a story is based on a pastiche of factual accounts by outlining the ethical quandaries that arose from using real lives as fodder for fiction and discussing my moral responsibilities to the people whose stories I used. ii Declaration of Originality This thesis contains only sole-authored work. I certify that the substance of this thesis has not been submitted already for any degree, nor is it being currently submitted for another degree. I certify to the best of my knowledge that all sources of reference have been acknowledged in this body of work. Catherine Gillard 22 February 2018 iii Acknowledgements I am most grateful to Professor Van Ikin, Professor Brenda Walker, and Dr Catherine Noske. This research was supported by an Australian Government Research Training Program (RTP) Scholarship. iv Contents THE DONOR: A Novel ……………………………………………………………………………….…… 1 “Father Hunger: Researching and Crafting The Donor”……………………………… 231 Introduction .................................................................................................... 232 Chapter One: Literature Review and Research ............................................... 236 Chapter Two: An Ethics of Care ...................................................................... 251 Chapter Three: Crafting The Donor ................................................................. 258 Conclusion ....................................................................................................... 268 Bibliography .................................................................................................... 270 v THE DONOR CATHERINE GILLARD To those people who still haven’t been told how they were conceived 1981 A new species would bless me as its creator. Many happy and excellent creatures would owe their existence to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I would deserve theirs. Victor Frankenstein, in Mary’s Shelley’s Frankenstein 3 DAN Now that Dan was awake he couldn’t recall what had been chasing him. The last fragments of his nightmare disintegrated as he checked his watch. The numbers glowed 5:13. He licked his lips. Water. He needed water. And a leak. He lay on a two-seat sofa, feet hanging over the edge, sweating pure alcohol. He flexed his head from left to right to get rid of the stiffness in his neck. He focused his aching eyeballs on a crack in the low ceiling, remembering the girl offering him a lift home. Only they ended up at her apartment, because he couldn’t go home. Did he tell her why? All that came to mind was a vision of her astride him. What was her name? She might have been an arts student. Or was that some other girl he was chatting to earlier in the night? And why hadn’t he made it as far as her bedroom? The sex can’t have been great for her—he was smashed on bourbon and cokes, trying to anaesthetise himself. His tongue rimmed his teeth. He needed a toothbrush as well. A thin blueish light stained the window in the galley kitchen, not enough to navigate his way in unfamiliar territory. He switched on the lamp on the coffee table behind his head. Bare walls except for a guide dog calendar. A TV from the previous decade balanced on a crate, not plugged in. Near the front door, two cardboard packing boxes, one on top of the other. He gathered his clothes—borrowed from his friend Simon—dark pants too short, white shirt too large. His brain sloshed in his skull as he dressed, trying to recall if he’d used a condom. His motto was ‘no glove, no love’—he’d heard enough stories on campus about genital herpes and unwanted pregnancies. He felt a stab of regret. He usually carried one in his wallet—large and ribbed for her pleasure—but he hadn’t replaced it after giving it to Simon a few weeks earlier. He pushed ugly thoughts from his head to concentrate on what he needed to do to stop a throbbing headache (brown paper and vinegar, the voice of a long-gone babysitter chimed), and figure out where he was. 4 A choice of two doors for the bathroom. He chose correctly. He didn’t flush in case the sound woke the girl. Should he leave his telephone number? But he no longer even had one. If she wanted to see him again, she knew where to find him. On Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, standing sentinel at Club Bay View, checking for underage girls, keeping guys wearing thongs and boardies out, and ejecting obnoxious drunks, unless they were mates. He searched unsuccessfully for aspirin in the cabinet above the sink. The mirror showed white spittle around his mouth but didn’t otherwise reflect his hangover. He turned the tap, stuck his head under and guzzled cool water. He let himself out of the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind him, and stumbled down several flights of stairs he didn’t remember stumbling up. He vaguely recognised the street before collapsing onto the bottom step, contemplating the very long walk ahead. He noticed a rusted Malvern Star. A girl’s bike. At least it saved him the effort of raising his leg over a cross bar. He dumped Simon’s shoes in the wicker basket. One tyre needed air. Shenton Park. The wrong side of the river from home. Or what was once home. The place where he was no longer welcome. The streets were empty. He passed a lone jogger in Kings Park whose face was so red he almost asked the bloke if he wanted a lift. The cool air was finally easing his cranial plight. After half an hour his thighs burned as the streets began to fill with early-bird commuters. He checked his watch. Still too early. A lie-down on a park bench near Canning Bridge killed some time, though it felt more like time was slaying him. Back on the bike he set off for Millington Street, remembering the last time he was there. His father yelling at him. His step-mother’s cries of pain, her sobbing. His cowardice at running away, bare-chested, no shoes, his backpack stuffed with whatever was close at hand. He’d hitch-hiked to Simon’s and his friend was satisfied with the lie he told: that his father had kicked him out because he wanted to transfer out of medicine. He supposed there’d be a confession to his mate in the pub at some stage. If he could ever afford to drink again. Stomach gurgling, he watched the house from behind a neighbour’s hedge. It was the ugliest on the street: single storey, brown-brick, three-bedroom, one-and-a- 5 half-bathroom. Non-descript architecture from the 1950s, when it was more expensive to build than buy the land. Millington Street had seen countless games of cricket, he’d learnt to ride here, raced his brother up and down the road—the winner as often as loser. The bitumen had taken its share of his skin. He knew pretty much everyone in the street, especially those who had welcomed the mother-less twins with a treat or paid them to do odd-jobs. Where was his father? At 7:33 the front door opened. Ronald Adams marched out wearing his blue suit (the other one was grey), clutching his faux snakeskin briefcase. The patriarch was broader in the shoulder than his sons, though they had a few inches on him now. His father’s expression was grim as he yanked up the garage door and yelled for Andrew to hurry up, or else he could walk. Dan’s brother came tearing down the stairs and waited by the garage door. The dark blue Falcon backed out and stopped. Andrew shut the garage door and hopped into the passenger seat. They’d always taken turns to sit in the front. It was an unspoken rule. But now it was Andrew’s alone. Were they talking about him in the car or was he already a taboo topic? He waited a few more minutes, anticipating the door opening again.