Fan Fiction: Doctor Who copyright as part of:
In These Words ... © copyright 2014 by Lillian CarreroA "Doctor Who" fan fiction - author's intro:
I’m not British. Even my best imitation British accent, is a poor imitation British accent. I’m me, not some other me, just me. I’ve got a slew of pet peeves and idiosyncratic tendencies and even the odd quarks here and there. If I were to list them, I’d never shut up, which I seem to have no inclination to want to do anyway. I rank, I rave and I carry on endlessly and talk, talk, talk. And don’t even get me started on how offensive I find it when someone gets cast as a Latino in a movie and they are so clearly not. And no, I don’t want to read a blow-by-blow, first person narrative on the inner city experience written by some ivy leaguer. It makes me want to puke ... bile.
That said—one of my idiosyncrasies, is a tad hypocritical.
Point in case, was my sheer audacity in writing a Doctor Who
story. The word is cajones, which given my gender is a hard sell, but
really if you cannot pronounce it right, don’t say it. It sounds bad.
Pot and kettle is all I have to say to that, because Nuyorican that I am—I don’t even have a culture, other than borrowed and piecemealed and made into something new. Predominantly associated with being rude, which I try not to be. It’s very frustrating, which of course brings me back to the fact that I’m not British, nor do I pretend to be.
I didn’t grow up with an awareness of Doctor Who; he was
some character on a television show I never watched. I knew nothing of Daleks or Cybermen, or any of the Doctor’s daily perils.
When the first Doctor faced his first adventure I faced my first steps.
As the second ended his running, I started mine—along with the first grade.
The third Doctor came and went and I was tucking away childhood like a discarded pair of old socks I no longer needed.
The face of the Doctor hovering peripherally in my memory was the fourth Doctor. He was Doctor Who, whenever I heard Doctor Who, but I didn’t watch and time continued to continue.
Five, six and seven went like the eighties for me, too fast.
For me, eight came after ten, but they all did. All the other Doctors came after ten. In many ways he was my Doctor, my first Doctor.
The ninth Doctor was my introduction, on a borrowed DVD with scratches of time and indifference. His exit convinced me he could not be replaced, but it wasn’t until the tenth Doctor was gone that I wanted to see all the others.
David Tennant, the tenth Doctor, remains my Doctor Who; even with the eleventh Doctor filling the screen I see the face and hear his voice of the tenth Doctor. I pretend he’s still there. I watched Midnight and his eyes filled with supplication of unshed tears and it broke my heart. Every moment, of every anguish he suffered I was there, voyeuristically peeking into fiction and falling in love with that world.
When the first Doctor faced his first adventure I faced my first steps.
As the second ended his running, I started mine—along with the first grade.
The third Doctor came and went and I was tucking away childhood like a discarded pair of old socks I no longer needed.
The face of the Doctor hovering peripherally in my memory was the fourth Doctor. He was Doctor Who, whenever I heard Doctor Who, but I didn’t watch and time continued to continue.
Five, six and seven went like the eighties for me, too fast.
For me, eight came after ten, but they all did. All the other Doctors came after ten. In many ways he was my Doctor, my first Doctor.
The ninth Doctor was my introduction, on a borrowed DVD with scratches of time and indifference. His exit convinced me he could not be replaced, but it wasn’t until the tenth Doctor was gone that I wanted to see all the others.
David Tennant, the tenth Doctor, remains my Doctor Who; even with the eleventh Doctor filling the screen I see the face and hear his voice of the tenth Doctor. I pretend he’s still there. I watched Midnight and his eyes filled with supplication of unshed tears and it broke my heart. Every moment, of every anguish he suffered I was there, voyeuristically peeking into fiction and falling in love with that world.
I’m not British. I’ve never been to England (but I’ve been to
Rome ... shh). My poor man’s imitation totally sucks, nothing brilliant about it. But I loved Doctor Who and J.K. Rowling seems to
have no interest in writing fan fiction. So I wrote about my Doctor,
in my story.
December 2011
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