I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

A Dr Who Critic and the Literary Fart

by playwrite27 @ 01/07/2007 – 18:57:37

Everyone's a critic! Actually, I'm not at all opposed to criticism of my writing, really--as long as it's of a constructive nature, I mean, that it's done tactfully, and in a way that I can learn from and hopefully improve my skills, my thinking.

But...I seem to have attracted the wrong type of critic. Yesterday, I got a long, ranting missive, in the comments section of this old Dr Who story that I'm editing/re-writing on this blog, taking on how I was ripping of Dr Who, and that I shouldn't "steal" from the show, that it was all copyrighted, blah-blah-blah. And he wasn't at all nice about it--a right nutter, if you ask me--and even if you don't ask me. Raked me over the verbal coals, up one side and down the other.

Hang about there Mr. Critic!

So, after making like a cyberman and deleting his extremely rude "comments", I wrote my response, thinking that would be the end of it. (Fan fiction IS a legitimate genre, I give copyright credit to the BBC, all the time, and, I DO NOT plagarize. EVER. EVER-EVER-EVER-EVER-EVER. Period. And also, NEVER.)

I mean, where have any of my stories mirrored what was written in Who--besides characters, the Tardis, and other important things needed, that are part of the show, I mean. When the hell have I ever copied storylines from the show? I mean, some of this stuff was written before I even saw Series 2--and only two episodes of Series 1, and all but one (Dream Weavers) was written before November of 2006, so how could I possibly copy stuff in Series 3? Which is what my mystery critic was suggesting. I don't really get why this guy is so angry and wrought up with me.

I've stated repeatedly on this blog, and elsewhere, that I'm NOT a fiction writer! I did some play writing coursework, and some poetry classes, but mostly, I'm trained to be an essayist and a news/PR writer. My studies in fiction writing--2 weeks. That's it. Now, I've been lectured--and lectured, about note-taking and brainstorming and all that stuff that writers are supposed to do. I don't. Well, mostly I don't. I'd say that more than 50 percent of the time that I write fiction--I just sit down and do it, right then and there, off the top of my head. Don't think about plot, or anything. Which is why my fiction is crap. More than half the time, I just make it up as I go along!

I may sweat and fuss and get intensely focused with an essay, news story or feature article, but fiction--bleh. I just do it for fun. To let off some pressure--like a literary fart.

I don't need to copy what's on Dr Who, for pity's sake! What for? Then the work wouldn't be mine--where's the fun in that? Where's the pride in one's work--no matter how bad it is, it's still mine. I don't want to copy other's people's stuff--that'd be like me insulting myself. A creative self-rape.

In particular, this guy wrote, "I think it's wrong of you to rip off the work of Russell Davies."
WHAT??????? I'm not even remotely in the same league as the guys who write Who: Davies, Dicks, Moffat and all the others...dear lord, no. I mean, it's like these guys are on Mars and I'm in an underground cave in China. The gap is that wide. I mean, writing like that, certainly, is something to aspire to--but...no. I'm never going to match that, if I live to be a hundred. I'll never in my lifetime be as good as them, not even fractionally. To suggest that I'm trying to copy Mr Davies...is just...ludicrous. If for no other reason, I...don't know how. I'd love to study under someone like Davies or Moffat--but..how can I imitate them? Their skills and life experiences--and intelligence, is so way over my head...impossible.

Well...no more comments today from Mr. Wonderful (won't disclose his handle, because I don't want to be petty about this--I'm not, being that way, am I?) I thought that was just a one-time thing, no worries.

Nahhh! No such luck. He's baaack! On my e-mail. Oh boy. What a joy to come home to.

Ah well, everyone's a critic. I'll just keep deleting him...unless he finally has something constructive to say???

Dr Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

by playwrite27 @ 01/07/2007 – 16:55:19

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry, by Playwrite27

CHAPTER 7: Getting a Grip

The Doctor pushed Marie away from him and into the brush at the edge of the little glade. He listened to her moving away softly through the tangle of growth, Then stood his ground, somberly staring at the grim trio, eye-to-eye. The three of them began slowly walking forward. When they turned in the direction of Marie, the Doctor’s face assumed a jovial expression. “Ah! I see you’re interested in the local flora.” He chortled.

Moving to block their way, he pretended to be fascinated by the bushes. “That’s diervilla lonicera--common honeysuckle, to most of you.” He cautiously watched the three walking corpses. “Don’t ask me how I know that--because I haven’t the slightest clue. Still, being that you all live--or should I say, had lived--around here, I suppose you’d know that. “And those”, he said, pointing to a mass of snarled bushes, “are blackberries. Nasty things to tangle with, full of thorns, you know.”

He was doing his best to buy Marie time to get away, but the Doctor's babbling seemed to have no affect on the three. The corpses--or whatever they were, continued to purposefully stalk towards the Doctor, arms outstretched.

His acute hearing told him that Marie was about two hundred yards off now--not nearly far enough. So, seemingly unconcerned, he continued talking nonsense. But, inside his head, he asked himself, 'How do I defeat someone who, for all intents and purposes, is already dead?' He backed away, still gabbing like some eccentric old botanist, obliviously lecturing a totally disinterested audience. “And that other bush there, those are blueberries,” he addressed the young hunter, who was nearest him, “I’ll just bet you love those on your pancakes, a big strapping young lad like you.” Another check, and the Doctor's senses told him that Marie was well away now. He immediately decided that now would be a good time to make his own exit.

He turned on his heels to flee, and crashed right into the arms of yet another of the zombies. This one was dressed like a logger and had the physique to match. He held the Doctor in a vise-like grip.

The Doctor struggled, but to no avail. Slowly, inexorably, he felt both his strength and his breath being squeezed from him. The trio that had followed him from the barn turned into the brush, apparently intent on finding Marie. “No!” He gasped. “Leave her alone!” Those were the last words he said, as his vision slowly faded and his hearts slowed their beating.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've just been told tonight, that the Doctor does indeed weep, in the Series 3 finale--so I guess, my title was a bit pre-mature. :))

Dr Who Captions for Sunday

by playwrite27 @ 01/07/2007 – 08:02:20

"The lift is jammed, we're stuck. I know--let's sing! ...But I would walk 500 miles..."

"I wanna' laser screwdriver! I want it NOW! Wahhhh!"

DAVID: "Did you have to put my mark underneath a flock of pigeons?"

Dr Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

by playwrite27 @ 30/06/2007 – 23:34:47

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER 6: Doppelganger

The Doctor put a protective arm around Marie. “Get behind me,” he whispered, “and whatever you do, don’t go near him.” Marie obeyed him silently. The Doctor smiled at the..thing. “Hello. Nice farm.” He and Marie backed towards the window, moving as slowly as possible, the Doctor hoping fervently “Uncle Tobias” wouldn’t notice. He tried to stall for time. “I was out for a little stroll, noticed your nice barn--I love old barns, by the way, wonderful craftsmanship, eh?”

The thing that was Uncle Tobias merely stood there, staring out of vacant eye sockets. That worried the Doctor more than if he--it, had gone after them. “What is he waiting for?” The Doctor murmured.

He didn’t have long to wait for an answer. Out of the murky shadows, another form appeared, and then another. The Doctor swung his torch around and studied each of the newcomers. One had the appearance of a young man, dressed in hunting clothes. The other was a woman seeming to be of middle age, wearing a faded dress and an apron. Their eyes were open, but they had no spark of life in them. The skin on their flesh was pale, almost transparent. Uncle Tobias nodded to them silently, and they walked forward, arms outstretched.

The Doctor, backing towards the window, stepped abruptly on something soft and narrow. A screech rent the air. The Doctor realized that he’d stepped on the cat’s tail. The two newcomers halted, startled by the noise, and that was all the time he needed. Muttering an apology to the cat, he swiftly scooped up Marie, and bolted through the broken window.

Marie struggled against him. “No! We can’t leave him there!” She cried. “It's okay, sweetheart, I know he looks real, but that’s not really your uncle." The Doctor reassured her, as he ran. It wasn’t easy, he found, running with a little girl who didn’t want to run.

“Not Uncle Tobias,” she sniffed, “Chauncey, my cat. I can’t leave him. He’s my best friend.” The Doctor sighed patiently. “It’s a good thing I like cats.” He said, with resignation. The Doctor frowned. “I do, don’t I? Except for cat nuns, I'm not fond of cat nuns. Well, at least my memory isn’t totally gone.” He set Marie down, kneeling down in front of her. “Call him,” he said out quietly, “maybe your Chauncey will follow us.” Before she could call out though, the Doctor felt something brush against the back of his leg. It was the cat. It must have followed them out the window. The Doctor smiled. "Nice to know he doesn't hold a grudge. Pity some of you humans can't be more like your animals." He petted Chauncey, "Good boy!" Smiling at the Doctor, Marie picked up her cat, walking alongside him, as he led the way into the woods.

Deep piles of dead brown leaves crackled beneath their feet, as they walked rapidly into the woods. Overhead, the branches bent down, reaching tentacled fingers to grasp at their clothing. After walking for about twenty minutes, they came to a tiny clearing. The moon dodged in and out of heavy clouds, making their deadly game of hide and seek even more dangerous. One false step and a broken arm or leg would end the game rather quickly.

The Doctor paused and sat down on a rock. He looked at Marie, who sat on the ground beside him, stoking her cat and whispering reassurances in its ear. “Are you alright?” He asked anxiously. She looked at him and nodded. “What happened to him, to your Uncle? How did you get into that old well?”

For a long moment, Marie simply sat petting her cat. The Doctor folded his arms and waited patiently. She’d been through a lot. They weren't being followed--yet. The Doctor decided that it would be best that she speak when she was ready. Marie looked up at him for a long moment before replying. In a voice almost like a whisper, she said, “He came home from hunting one night. He’d been out all night. I--I heard him screaming, in the woods. That was almost a month ago.”

She grew pale again, and trembled slightly. The Doctor got up. Taking off his hat, he also removed his sweater. He bent down and handed it to her. "Here, put this on" "Won't you be cold?" She asked. The Doctor smiled and put his hat back on, wearing it at a jaunty angle. Adjusting the sleeves of his dark blue wool shirt, he chuckled, saying, "Nahh--this is like broad summer, to me."

Squatting down, he asked, “Your uncle, what happened after he came home?” She pulled his sweater on and said, “He began acting all strange. Would shut himself up in his room for hours and hours…the dogs became afraid of him, wouldn’t go near him. He got angry with me a lot. When I tried to speak to him, it was like he couldn't understand me and it made him mad. He'd say I wasn't developed enough..." Marie hung her head in shame, "That I was useless for his purpose, except as a slave." Her voice trailed off again.

The Doctor frowned and bit his lip, holding in his anger. Softly he prompted her, "What else, Marie, was there anything else about his behavior, anything really out of the ordinary?" She nodded again, staring at her booted feet. "Sometimes, at night, I’d see strange lights under his door and hear all sorts of odd noises. It was even worse, this afternoon, I heard him yelling--but he was alone. I thought he might be sick, so I got worried and knocked on his door, and he…he…” She looked at the Doctor, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “He hurt you?” The Doctor asked gently. She merely nodded silently. He hugged her. “It’s okay. I’m here now. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

As he hugged her, a strange thing happened to him. Inside his head, he got an odd sensation. Like something that had been missing...an emptiness, had suddenly been filled. Then, confusingly to him, the sensation was gone. The Doctor's face registered bewilderment. “What was that all about?” He asked himself.

Before he could take the question any further, a crash sounded just a short way from where they were sitting. Three lifeless forms walked manikin-like into the clearing. It was Uncle Tobias and his friends. The Doctor gathered Marie to him. “Run!” He whispered.

Juggling the Holiday and Remembering WENN

by playwrite27 @ 30/06/2007 – 22:21:00

Since we part-time peons don't get holiday pay, I have to make up the loss of hours on Wednesday, for the the Forth of July National holiday. Good thing is, I guess sales are so lousy--it being the number two holiday week of the summer and few people are home--as a "treat" for all the hard work we'll have to do to make sales (Any idea how hard it is to pretend for hours and hours to be positive and upbeat, phone call after phone call?? Espeecially when half your parties on the other end are excessively abusive?) we get to "dress casual" for the whole week, instead of just on the weekend--means if I want to wear jeans or a denim skirt this week, and tee shirts, I can. Makes it easier on the laundry budget, for the week. But my schedules's a bit weird--Sun. 3 hours, Mon, 8 hours, Tues. 10 hour split shift, Thurs. 9 hour split shift, Friday, 8 hours, Sat. 2 hours--and then no more days off until the following Saturday.

I adore Dr Who, as you must all know, by now--but, there is, or rather was, one other programme that I loved nearly equally well. It was a somewhat obscure series, run on the cable network, A&E, and was created--and written by the wonderful Rupert Holmes--a talented writer and muscian--for those of us over 40, he is best known, sadly, by my generation, for the Pina Colada (Escape) song--but also for the Mystery of Edwin Drood, which I really liked.

It featured top-notch Broadway and Hollywood talents, it was hilarious, touching and lively--and each week, it was so good, it was, to me, quite literally like sitting down and watching a live theatrical performance. There was jokes, and drama and music--it was, very simply, just brilliant!

Remember WENN took place at a small radio station in Pittsburg, Pennslyvania, in the late 30's to the eve of WWII. It revloved around the people who worked at the station: actors, sound effects guy--who's name was Mr. Foley and who never once spoke a line--and was brilliant nonetheless...and the writer and the management, and even receptionist and gofer. It was really so well done--and the music was great as well...guest stars included one of the last appearences by Roddy McDowell, Rue McClanahan of Golden Girls and Nunsense! fame, Peter Noone (Herman's Hermits)--who sang a Christmas carol, and more.

It was really special to us baby boomers--who didn't grow up in the radio era--in the US, we no longer had radio programmes by the year 1960--I mean, they were an extreme rarity, there was-and still is, mostly only music and talk shows, sports programmes and news on our radios here.

So, Remember WENN, besides being entertaining, was also a window on a world I can now only dream of--oh, how I would have loved working for a place like WENN! I would have adored it--you probably wouldn't have been able to prise me away from the place with ten body builders and a pry bar...well, maybe if they were really buff. :yes:

Here's a great little clip featuring the talented New York stage and film actress, Melinda Mullins--who played the role of Hilary Booth--a has-been Broadway diva, who winds up in a backwater radio station. Booth's biggest role on broadway was The Rivals--and her character has a standard line, when anyone mentions seeing her in the play, delivered with a falsely flippant laugh, "Ohhh, he Rivals, that old thing..." Her character really winces at the knowlege that she's no longer in the spotlight/footlights--and is always ready to remind everyone that SHE'S a STAR...refuses to think of herself as a has-been. Pure diva--but Holmes wrote her so that she's not totally shallow--underneath the shallow exterior, we sometimes glimpse a good person. Her love/hate relationship with her on again/off again co-star husband, "Jeff," (she loved/hated him) it was terrific--Hillary and Jeff are forced to act together on a morning programme and other shows on air--live, of course, and some of their little...spats, were so fun to watch...Brillantly acted and written.

And now I give you, Melinda Mullins, portraying Hillary Booth:

Dr Who for the MTV generation--Awesome!!!

by playwrite27 @ 30/06/2007 – 20:18:27

Another fun fan-made video:

Interesting Evening

by playwrite27 @ 30/06/2007 – 19:30:36

Well..interesting evening here in my city...there's huge fire burning somewhere on the south side of town, and a good-sized severe thunderstorm brewing just to the north...well, maybe the storm will put out the big fire--it's a mile or two away, by the looks of it, but you can smell the smoke out on my balcony. I've been hearing sirens for about a half-hour, but not that unusual, even for a city this small in size.

Guess I'll have to read the Post-Star later, see what's what, ey?