Dave Maass

Last night, I couldn’t sleep. OK, so I napped for three hours in the afternoon, but that’s only part of the reason for my insomina. The bigger factor was my immediate, manic obsession and fury over the end of the 10th Doctor, David Tennant, and his regeneration into a 27-year-old dough-faced actor by the name of Matt Smith.

No spoilers here. This isn’t a review of Doctor Who: The End of Time, the finale marking the end of Tennant’s Doctor or writer Russell T. Davies’ reign over the franchise, nor is it a prediction for the next season, due in the spring. Instead, here’s why I’m so frackin’ bent out of shape.

OK, so I’m not really a Whovian. I’ve still only ever seen a single episode of the classic Doctor Who TV series, Douglas Adams’ Pirate Planet, so I really am a newcomer to the series. Nevertheless, at this point, I’m immersed in the Whoinverse, mostly because of the news series, but also, through Big Finish Productions’ radio dramatizations, I have become a fan of Doctors five through eight.

I came in midway through season 3, when it was running on the Sci-Fi (now SyFy) channel. I was living in San Antonio, having jumped around from the UK to Ghana to Seattle over the previous few years. I was well-traveled, but lonely. It was just me and, for lack of a better word, my adventures. I’d marched through swamps to lost refugee camps, camped out overnight with strikers at breweries, attended conferences thrown by anti-circumcision activists. In Texas, one day I’d be covering a teen beauty pageant, the next I’d be witnessing an execution. It was (in the words of Christopher Ecceleston’s 9th Doctor) fantastic, but all the moving around, all the engrossing stories, left me isolated. Then came Doctor Who–an inspired but tragic character with whom I could identify. I moved to Santa Fe, then San Diego, and I experienced cross-country road rallies and rescued prairie-dogs and witnessed historical political conventions. Meanwhile, the Doctor would be in his own amazing situations, solving murders, defeating aliens, saving planets and all the while he watched companions enter his life and leave just as abruptly. Me too, I thought, me too.

Since 2006, I’ve grown up a lot and I feel like Tennant’s Doctor helped me mature, helped me cope and understand my place in the world (or universe). I was so, so sad to see him go. All things must pass, sure, and the Doctor’s regenerations mirror how we, as humans, also change over the years, as we become students and workers and lovers and move from one city and situation to the next.

Then I watched the trailer for the next series and I became irate.

I think the reason is simple enough: I don’t know how I’m going to relate to a Doctor that is, at least outwardly, younger than me. It’s not that I doubt Smith’s potential or his acting talent (if the new writer, Steven Moffat, was impressed then that’s enough for me). Rather, I can’t imagine falling in love with a Doctor to whom the world interprets and reacts to as a child rather than a man. I can’t look up to him.

Of course, it’s silly for a grown man to look to a fictional character for guidance. Then again, I’ve always been a creature of fantasy, and I don’t care how silly that sounds. For better or worse, it’s part of who I am and I’ve come to accept that it’s OK to be a fan boy.

Through it all, the stress and the emotional weight of being a writer, Doctor Who has been something to hold on to, something always there to look forward to. I’m not excited about the new season at all and that distresses me. All I’ve got in my head is a mushy-faced kid yelling “Geronimo,” the stupidest catchphrase imaginable.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I wish I could regenerate.